VeNdEtTa Of ThE hEaRt
by Viny88
Summary: The greatest lessons of all,are always the hardest to learn-but Bulma's loath to find the passion of one man to be more threatening than the gun he carries. Kidnapped by the greatest crime industry in the world,her life has gone awry...B/V
1. Chapter One

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
The piercing rays of light danced upon her gleaming face, their translucent hands caressing her flesh like a lover's hand. A bright smile graced her soft, full-rosy lips, as she gave a sigh of anticipation of what the day would hold. Her joyful expression was reflected in her azure orbs, along with the blue silken strands that gently rest on her shoulders, giving great contrast to the lavish white gown she wore. The seams of the extravagant dress were traced with delicate lace, giving a look of dignified beauty to her curvaceous body. The pale flesh that the gown hid beneath its velvet length squirmed with slight anxiety.  
  
She figured it was simply 'cold feet', as so many referred to it as. Glancing at the reflection gazing back at her, she fidgeted once more. Though uncertainty was not uncommon, she didn't appreciate the feeling. Not now. In fact, especially not now, this was her wedding day, the day that is said to be 'the best day of your life'. The very day she would be eternally bound to her soul mate, or so she thought. Doubt as to whom she was marrying was nonexistent, for not one negative thought dwindled in her mind about 'him'.  
  
No, she was just being immature.  
  
Though what could be truthfully expected of a young girl at the age of 19? Sure, she was now considered an adult under the law, but what was her true capacity of emotional understanding? As was always said, 'Age shall bring wisdom', but apparently whatever she harbored now, would have to do. Besides, age was not a major goal in her life. She would rather be a youth throughout her entire existence, whether or not she would be the same naive woman. That was just a consequence she was more than willing to accept. As a matter of fact, she would prefer such a life. The more experiences that she could live through, as a young lady, the better, she thought...Hence, her young marital age.  
  
"When does the ceremony begin," she questioned softly.  
  
"You've got 10 minutes left as a free woman, Bulma, so live it up," a woman, seemingly within the same age range as the bride, responded in a rough chuckle. "While you can," she teased, strutting towards an oak vanity, placed in the left corner of the room.  
  
"You're one to speak," Bulma retorted. "You're already married for Kami's sake, Chi."  
  
"Did you have to remind me," Chi Chi scolded, turning around to face Bulma, the lengthy strands of her ebony hair swaying softly with her movements.  
  
"I'm going to tell Goku you said that!"  
  
"Bulma," Chi Chi snapped indignantly, "you know I was only fooling."  
  
"Hai," Bulma agreed with a ghost of a smile.  
  
"Stop that, Bulma," Chi Chi ordered. "You can't start laughing when you're walking down the aisle, everyone will assume your mocking the groom!"  
  
"Then perhaps, I am," Bulma responded playfully.  
  
"Then I possibly agree with you."  
  
"Chi!"  
  
"Hey, you're the one that suggested it."  
  
"Sarcasm, Chi Chi," Bulma taunted, "you should learn to recognize it."  
  
"Well, if we're giving off tips at the moment," Chi Chi mocked, "then I believe it would be useful to learn how to read time."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You're 5 minutes late to your own wedding," Chi Chi giggled, as she gathered the bottom of her maiden's dress, slowly sauntering outside of the dressing room.  
  
"I'm going to kill you, Chi! Why didn't you tell me," Bulma demanded as she hastily ambled outside, trying desperately to amend for the lost time.  
  
The chapel was in view, directly outside of the convenient quarters for the bride to prepare in. The exterior of the chapel was simple, but a respectful building none-the-less. Nothing was really fancy about the interior either, but it would suffice. Bulma's gown was a classic wedding number, the lacy sleeves and smooth waist. Which all fit accordingly with the strained budget that had been given for this beautiful occasion. The thought that little money could be spared for the day did not hinder Bulma's immeasurable joy, as she stepped into the confines of the moderately sized chapel.  
  
Classical marital ceremony music sounded within Bulma's ears as she slowly made her way in the line towards the main room, where her wedding would take place. As suspected, Goku stood patiently at the door, awaiting for Bulma. For he was the one who would give her away. With the absence of Bulma's father, Goku was happy to oblige his long-time friend from high school, and lead her down the aisle to her soon-to-be husband. Smiling as she approached, he immediately offered his arm to her, which she graciously accepted.  
  
Upon entrance, Bulma could feel the dozens of eyes gazing at her, watching her every move. Anxiety suddenly swelled in her being, as she continued down the walkway. She could feel herself begin to falter in her steps, causing her regal composure to begin to dwindle as her knees gave away beneath her weight. Luckily, Goku had sensed her mishap long before, supporting her weight with his body as they continued. Offering him a smile in gratitude, Bulma regained her footing as she neared her anxious groom. She could see a appreciative glance sent her way, filling her with a warm feeling of bliss. A light blush tainted her pale cheeks, causing her turn her face away nervously.  
  
She searched the crowd thoroughly, studying the happy faces that greeted her. She could spot all her relatives and friends, new and old, gazing at her with envy. Smiling at them all, she turned her gaze to the opposite set of rows, which held all of her groom's guests. Despite not knowing a few, Bulma still offered them a pleasing smile as they entered her vision.  
  
Unconsciously, Bulma retraced her eyes path, once again gazing at a man that was seated near the back of the chapel. The suit he wore, most likely, cost more than the ENTIRE ceremony. Obviously, he stood out, but there was something undeniably alluring about the creature she now studied intently. His facial features were sharp, yet subtle, creating the sensual face she was increasingly enjoying to stare at. His cheekbones were high, suiting the aristocratic nose he held raised in the air, along with a prominent widow's peek that dove low on his forehead. Every characteristic of his face was defined by his tawny flesh, giving great contrast to the sensual burgundy lips that curved into a devilish smirk. His every aspect was intriguing, especially his upswept ebony mane that resembled a flame engulfed by darkness. Yet, nothing was as capturing as the onyx orbs that held incomparable intensity, causing everything besides them to seem dull and boring. They resembled the dark expanse of the sky when night fell, only the fathomless depths she beheld represented more than petty darkness. Like treacherous lightening, they were lit with electrifying passion. Just as distant thunder echoed within their depths, silently calling to her- daring her to reach out.  
  
And that's when it suddenly struck her. How could she peer into his eyes so deeply, if they did not scrutinize her as well? A crimson hue discolored her cheeks, as she attempted to appear casual. As if she wasn't blatantly staring at him all the while. Apparently, he noticed this as well, evidence enough with the remaining smirk that molded his lips. How very sensual could this man be? His entire aura radiated with a certain ambiguous demeanor, one that captured her azure pools with accuracy beyond her realm of thoughts. This is when Bulma started to notice his enchanting lips moving. It was quite obvious he was forming syllables and such, but what was he trying to tell her. Her mind started imagining extraordinarily romantic phrases, or perhaps fairytale promises to lead her away to his majestic kingdom. Such foolish thoughts, yet Bulma figured it suited the man, and his charming ways that succeeded to bind her in desire. She couldn't resist the simplistic action of winking at the man, though what had caused her to do such was beyond her.  
  
Bulma was undoubtedly pleased as he returned the gesture, his thick black lashes teasing her with their subtle movements. She simply hated herself for having such a thought, but she was bound to wonder what he looked like unclothed. At the time it seemed like such a tasty thought, although she couldn't help but giggle at the possible notion he was over- weight. Dismissing her scandalous thoughts, Bulma once again tried to decipher his words.  
  
After several attempts, she had found he was saying 'turn', but she couldn't quite catch on to his second word. She frowned that he was brushing her off in such a manner! Taking a huff of agitated breath, Bulma turned her attention to the front of her, and consequently found herself gazing into her groom's questionable eyes. Finally, she understood what the man was instructing her to do. All along, she had been making a fool of herself! Not only making a mockery of her groom, but also succeeding in embarrassing herself, as staring at one of her groom's relatives was not customary for the bride. Sending an apologetic glance to husband-to-be, she accepted his hand, while releasing her hold of Goku. Stepping up with the groom, they elegantly approached the priest, where he patiently stood.  
  
The ceremony proceeded accordingly, as Bulma repeated her everlasting vows. She was deeply disturbed at the moment, for thinking of another man while declaring vows of eternal binding to her groom, was odd to say the least. Every word she spoke was as it should be, filled with joy and love, but her eyes held a distant daze. She most certainly wasn't concentrating on anything around her, simply lost in thoughts, as she tried to analysis what had just transpired. To be blunt, she was overwhelmed. What had possessed her to stare as she did? Honestly she would never know, but it wasn't in her character to accept the fact. Dutifully she kissed her husband, as the vows were complete, and they smiled within the other's embrace.  
  
Finally returning from her constant thoughts, Bulma gazed deeply into her lover's eyes, searching for the love she knew she held for him. Surely enough, she found it there, as she grinned at him approvingly. He grasped her dainty wrist, pulling her into him once more, as he locked his lips with hers.  
  
All cheered within the room, happily watching the couple commence in a loving show of affection. Immediately afterward, all occupants of the chapel flocked outside to where dancing would ensue. As well as food, but that was far from anyone's mind as music of light tone started to play. Bulma walked out, the large patio area with marvelous gardens surrounding greeted her curious eyes. With light steps, she ambled her way through the many people, proudly smiling at her new status. She was married! Proof of so, rest on her delicate finger in all its marvel. The diamonds were shaped beautifully, just as the untainted gold embraced her ring finger tightly.  
  
"It's beautiful!" a lady beside Bulma squealed.  
  
"Hai, it's an absolute masterpiece," another chirped.  
  
"It saddens me to see it wasted on a little whore like you," a voice spoke in the same upbeat tone.  
  
At hearing this, Bulma turned on her heel. Her sapphire eyes pierced with anger. Though she came to face, none other, than her best friend, Chi Chi.  
  
"I couldn't resist, B-Chan," Chi Chi giggled as she flashed her friend a silly grin.  
  
Bulma smacked Chi Chi playfully, "Neither could I."  
  
Everyone started in an uproar of laughter, lightening the mood. Bulma hugged her friend tenderly, before waltzing away towards her husband.  
  
"Bulma-babe, are you enjoying yourself," he questioned.  
  
"Don't call me that, Yamcha," Bulma hissed.  
  
"Why," he asked, slightly offended by her harsh tone.  
  
"It- it's just so juvenile!"  
  
"Right, right," he agreed before walking away.  
  
"Yamcha," Bulma snapped snidely.  
  
"I'm off to get us a slice of cake, Bulma-dear."  
  
Bulma sneered at the new nickname, but decided to remain where she was, as Yamcha started to bring her a piece of cake.  
  
"Here you are, Bulma-dear," he mocked, as he handed the cake to Bulma.  
  
Smiling gratefully, she accepted the offering and took hold of the plate. Grant, it was a small piece, so it vanished quickly, leaving Bulma to lick the frosting from her lips. She did so teasingly, letting her tongue roll across her lips softly, as she lapped the icing from her cherry lips. Yamcha noticed the enticing display, but found himself in a fit of jealousy. He was not the only male observing the tempting invitation. Releasing a light snarl, he lifted what remained of his piece of cake, and promptly stopped her as he meshed it onto her face.  
  
Everyone's attention was drawn to the scene, as Bulma let out a distressed wail. Her pitiful act was dropped like ice as rage began to burn in her eyes, igniting the uncanny temper she harbored within. Growling menacingly, she brushed the small chunk of cake that rest on her cheek. Some icing still remained smothered in small blotches from her left cheek, across her lips, and onto her chin, but she didn't bother to remove it.  
  
"It's tradition," Yamcha declared hopefully, as he watched his wife shutter with rage.  
  
"Traditions die hard," Bulma spat, lifting the palm of her hand as she prepared to strike him.  
  
The blow never came, leaving her hand mere centimeters from his face. Instead of slapping him, she simply patted his cheek in what appeared to be in a friendly manner, while realistically, the force behind her touch was as vicious as she. But not one sound was made, compliments of the pre- applied frosting on her hand. She was more intelligent than many gave her credit for. After 'patting' him about seven times, Bulma pushed up on the top of her toes, as she leaned towards him. Yamcha, as usually, started moving in closer to her as well, in thoughts of receiving a kiss.  
  
Obviously, Bulma had something else in mind.  
  
Before their lips, she turned her head to the side, avoiding his expectant mouth. A small chuckle could be heard behind them, but she didn't bother to turn. Casting her head to the side, she whispered in Yamcha's ear, a wicked little promise,  
  
"And by the time I'm done with you," she whispered seductively. "So will you," she hissed, her tone changing drastically.  
  
Any who had witnessed the exchange, would be lead to believe she was whispering promises of sweet torture on their honeymoon to come. With the innocent façade, and the suggestive smirk curving her full lips, it was a deceiving act, and a rather good one at that. Pulling away from him, she gazed at him thoughtfully, her sapphire orbs still ablaze with her roaring temper. Without giving him the opportunity to speak, she sashayed gracefully away. Her hip's movements tempting any man who dare to touch.  
  
The sun was nearing its decent, the midnight hues drowning the late day, golden rays of light within their eternal wonder. Bulma made her way through the couples dancing, searching for friends to converse with. She bit her lower lip, as she found not one of her friends. For that matter, none of the young women that were present before were to be seen. It was unnerving, and Bulma was becoming agitated. Taking a huff of breath, she looked about attentively.  
  
"Milady, much of the girls are socializing near the archway," a voice affirmed behind her, "in the garden to the left, that is."  
  
"Thank-you," Bulma said gratefully as she began to walk where instructed, never bothering to face the person who had so graciously helped her.  
  
As told, Bulma found a whole flock of her friends, as well as ladies from Yamcha's guest list, in a rather large crowd. They all seemed to be centered on one thing. Bulma, of course, resented the idea, for she was the one who should be receiving any and all the attention, was she not? She figured it was so, since this was her marital party after-all. Many of the women hadn't noticed her, as of yet, and remained babbling on underneath the simple wooden-oak arch. This irritated Bulma to an outrageous degree, making her hands fidget in barely suppressed anger. Waltzing up to Amelia, an old friend from her childhood, she began to demand what was so utterly entertaining that they had all gathered here.  
  
"What's going on," Bulma inquired, attempting to hide her agitation at the matter.  
  
"Oh, Bulma, we-," Amelia started before she abruptly stopped, turning her attention back to the growing crowd.  
  
"Amelia!"  
  
"Shh," Amelia scolded, never turning her gaze. "So, you've been in the business for 11 years?" she asked wistfully, directing her words to the center of the gathering.  
  
Growling, Bulma pushed her way through the crowd, in hopes of finding the source of her growing irritation, and ripping it apart! She was fed up with the rivaling attention, this was her wedding and it was time to claim that. Once in the center, she found herself lost in onyx pools of eternal depth. Dumbfounded, she gazed at the man in a daze. It was the very same man she had so pensively been staring at earlier, the very same being who had haunted her thoughts while she spoke vows of eternal love. Needless to say, she was trapped in an awkward silence.  
  
"Yes, though I have been within the vineyard since childhood," his voice timber and calm, spoke out, answering the previously asked question.  
  
His eyes held her own, searching them intently, as if he could peer into the essence of her being. Bulma felt hypnotized within his gaze, as the ebony orbs penetrated the barriers that no other had ever attempted to conquer; never even known were existent. Little did she know, he felt the very same, simply dazed, as everything was cloudy and mysterious except for the endless expanse of sapphire gems that reflected him like clear waters. He was sure of many things about the woman before him, but so lost within the same thought. Assumptions as such were all that filled his head.  
  
"Came to join us, I see," he stated, his voice as provocative as his unique eyes.  
  
"No."  
  
"Defiant," he chuckled, half to himself as he noted yet another of her characteristics.  
  
So far, he had concluded one thought of her... vicious vixen.  
  
"Cocky," she retorted, almost as if she were doing the same as him, trying to discover exactly what he was... friend or foe?  
  
"Never," he mocked, "I'd rather leave it as prideful."  
  
"Your opinion does not hinder my own," Bulma snapped.  
  
"You speak as if to convince yourself, as well," he said, a devilish smirk curving his luscious lips.  
  
"It's unwise to assume anything," Bulma snapped coyly, "about a woman."  
  
"I wouldn't have noticed."  
  
"Are you insulting me," Bulma gasped, astounded by the nerve of the man.  
  
He didn't even know her, and yet he had the gull to disregard her! The sapphire fire, that once lay dormant, ignited once more as she stared at him incredibly.  
  
"Humph," he grunted, "it is not in your best interest to tempt me to do so."  
  
"Is that a challenge," she inquired, her thin eyebrows rising in amusement at the notion.  
  
"This amuses you," he asked, his thick-black eyebrows rising as did hers.  
  
'He can read my like an open book,' Bulma gasped inwardly.  
  
"Perhaps," she hissed snidely.  
  
"I assume you accept," he whispered huskily, as if she had just committed herself to some sinful deed of unimaginable pleasure.  
  
She couldn't help but squirm at the thought.  
  
"I had thought I warned you about assuming such things," she spoke in a sultry voice.  
  
"I believe you did," he recalled. "Though I don't think I'm hasty in thinking, you're are secretly attracted to me," he whispered once more, his voice as sensual as the lips he spoke with.  
  
"Then you presume too much," she responded, trying to hide the blush highlighting her face, but to no avail.  
  
"Perhaps," he teased, fully aware of the growing color of her cheeks.  
  
'Cocky bastard,' she seethed inwardly.  
  
"You tempt fate, with your witty comments," Bulma stated, a light tease in her feminine voice.  
  
"Oh? Is that so?"  
  
"Quite."  
  
"By all means, enlighten me," he spoke, his voice underlined with seductive incentive.  
  
"You may provoke more attentions than you can handle," Bulma responded, her tone arrogant, but low enough that it only allowed his ears to understand what she spoke.  
  
"Consequences quail to the granted pleasures," he challenged her words.  
  
Silence ensued, as Bulma was simply dumfounded by his words.  
  
"Possibly it is you that tempts such happenings," he broke the silence, amusement obvious in his timber voice.  
  
"What makes you conclude so," she inquired mockingly, tiring of his games.  
  
"It may have already been destined," he suggested softly, a cocky smirk curling his lips.  
  
"Do not wander so far from reality," Bulma huffed.  
  
"You speak of your bondage," he questioned smugly.  
  
"No," she said flippantly, " just of a self-promise."  
  
"What might that be?"  
  
"Never to lower my standards to inferior levels, as well as inferior beings," she hissed.  
  
"You are in luck, for if I had made such petty promises to myself, I would not be speaking to you now."  
  
"Why you arrogant bastard," Bulma seethed, outraged by his confession.  
  
"I only did as you asked," he taunted, chuckling softly.  
  
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I never requested to be insulted!"  
  
"Aye, but you did say to remain within reality's boundaries."  
  
"Yet, you're still far from it," she snapped.  
  
"Do I displease you," he spoke in mock hurt.  
  
"You can't even imagine," she barked vehemently.  
  
"You speak to soon, for I can assure you I understand all to well," he retorted.  
  
"You speak through empathy, not experience," she growled.  
  
A light chuckle was her only reply, as he stepped closer to her, completely violating her personal space. Subconsciously, Bulma attempted to retreat from his approaching figure, but she failed miserably as her body was held captive within a possessive embrace. His strong arms were wound about her waist, his body mere centimeters away from her own. She was at a loss for actions, simply concentrating on the electrifying tingles his touch evoked. Her vision was hazy, her azure eyes conquered by the penetrating darkness that peered into her very essence. She hadn't even realized they were moving, nor did she take notice to the position she held. With her arms wrapped around his corded neck, they appeared to be coupling one another at the close proximity they held each other. The movements of her body were traitorous, seemingly not even of her own will, but she made no attempt to stop... no attempt to break the moment she had found herself in.  
  
Music foreign to Bulma's ears played softly in the background, leading the pair rhythmically across the dance floor. She was entrapped by the elegant steps he led her in, letting her follow him with the same etiquette. It was a dance as foreign as the music that sounded within her ears, lulling her every pore to mold to its ways. She was still unaware of the growing audience that witnessed the enchanting display, her husband included. Nor was she aware that the man she clung to was just as bewitched as her. Everything was centered upon the other, willingly or unwillingly was an unknown characteristic of the situation. All that was apparent at the time was the undeniable chemistry that was present between the pair.  
  
As Bulma started to regain herself minutely, she began to study the endless steps she made, as well as her partners. Trying to find some kind of bearing to her own movements, but was once again found ensnared by her own flaming desire. If one were to compare their movements to a dance that they were accustomed to, it could easily be linked to the tango. Aside from the flaring passion, and the majestic flow the dance possessed; it could quite easily pass as a form of the sensual dance. No words could convey the river of movements they made, both sensual and enchanting, and wisely no one attempted to do so. The onlookers grew, gradually becoming the entire populace of guests, even the priest. All eyes were fascinated by the pair. That is except for the husband of the very occupied woman that was presently within another man's embrace. It infuriated him to no end, yet he couldn't conjure enough courage to interfere either. Bulma was already angered with him, he didn't even want to imagine how she would react if he intervened. Growling, he sauntered towards the band, and quickly instructed them to stop playing, immediately. They did so begrudgingly, giving Yamcha the microphone in the process.  
  
"Ladies and Gentlemen, food will be available shortly, so, please take your respectable seats," Yamcha said, trying to hide the bitter jealousy from his voice.  
  
With the very first syllable spoken, Yamcha could feel icy-blue eyes of fury resting on him. He recoiled in shock, as he saw she not only did she remain in the man's arms, but was clinging only the more tightly. She glared at him, penetrating his hopeful gaze and shunning away any conflicting thoughts to be thankful he stopped the music, and breaking the trance she had sustained. The jealousy was evident in his composure, and it made her want to kiss the man she held on to in spite, if nothing else. Her anger made her grip onto him harder, letting the digits of her fingers bind in the clothes he wore.  
  
"Don't be bitter," a voice comforted, "we may dance once more."  
  
Bulma's gaze flickered to the owner of the voice, once again colliding with the ebony orbs that had dared her to take actions of desire, and passion. She blinked, but refused to look away from him. She told herself it was because it was a challenge not to, but something warned her that it was more. It was evident he was dangerous, if not because of his lecherous demeanor, his unyielding will. Could she resist such a power? A married woman was she, yet she was still unsure of what threat the man imposed. Whether it be to her marriage or to her will, she did not know. Though there was a light suspicion that her heart was the true target, and that the growing passion was the real culprit to the surreal desires that swelled within.  
  
"Who are you," Bulma asked, even though she hadn't intended to. It was more a curious wonder that she had hoped to remain in her head.  
  
"You may refer to me as many things, though only calling me Vegeta would be correct," he said, his voice the same timber tone she remembered seconds before. "That is besides nick names such as sexy, or others within the same branch," he finished as an after thought, a sensual smirk curving his lips once more.  
  
"Vegeta," Bulma mumbled thoughtfully.  
  
"Aye," Vegeta assured. "Vegeta Ouji." 


	2. Chapter Two

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
"Vegeta," Bulma mumbled thoughtfully.  
  
"Aye," Vegeta assured. "Vegeta Ouji."  
  
'Ouji,' Bulma's mind repeated.  
  
The name held a familiarity to it, though she couldn't place it to any constructive thought or event. Glancing at the man before her, she gave him an inspective glance, hoping that perhaps his image would strike some kind of a memory, but to no avail. Her mind failed her, leaving her in the dark of uncertainty of who the man was. She ultimately figured that he was just a relative of her beloved Yamcha, and so dismissed her configuring thoughts.  
  
"Yes, well, Mr. Ouji," Bulma said haughtily, "I never agreed to dancing with you, first of all."  
  
Allowing a momentary pause, she continued in a more lady like tone, "Secondly, I believe dinner will be served. Please take your seat."  
  
"I'd rather you refer to me as Vegeta," he informed, ignoring her previous snobbish words.  
  
"As I prefer otherwise."  
  
"Why so formal," Vegeta pressed, "Does it excite you," he implored further.  
  
"Quite the opposite, Mr. Ouji," Bulma chided, flustered by the way he manipulated her words into conversation lining impulsive flirting.  
  
"You, my angel, are too tense," he whispered, the rumble of his deep voice close to an erotic purr.  
  
"I- no," Bulma stammered at her great discomfort.  
  
"Neglected, perhaps?" Vegeta suggested. "I could change that," he murmured loftily, his breath tickling her ear.  
  
She hadn't even realized he was that close, until she had felt his body press against hers, as he slowly walked past her. Now, she was sure of at least one thing, he wasn't overweight. Although the caress of his flesh was short lived, she vividly recalled the ripple of muscles that grated against her body as he passed. Not even the layers of clothes that separated their naked flesh from touching could leave Bulma to imagine what she felt. The well-defined muscles protruded in her mind, just as they shaped the expensive material he had clothed himself in. As his touch vanished, she remained immobile, reminiscing in the light tingles that still slithered down her spine.  
  
Once finding her own footing, she made her way to her seat, which, obviously, was next to her husband. As she approached, Yamcha stood readily, and pulled the chair out for her to sit in. She did so, a smile curving her full-lips, as she met her lover's gaze. Whether or not she was young, it did not matter, for she knew who she loved, and he sat besides her now, and forever on.  
  
But what of whom she desired?  
  
The thought made her stomach churn. Such thoughts were forbidden to a married woman, she would have to accept that. Though as of yet, she truthfully hadn't. Thoughts were simple and evoked by emotions, it didn't mean she had to act on them. After much debate, she decided all thoughts were rubbish, and had no real effect on her, or her decisions. Besides, she would think as she pleased. Married, or not. With her new resolve in place, she lifted her dining utensils, fancifully (Yes, it's a word) pecking at her food, eating whatever appealed to her more. The notion made her ponder on peculiar thoughts, such as, if she did the same with men. Did she choose what was more appealing within the moment? Or was there more thought contributed to a decision as that?  
  
She figured there was.  
  
Though, what of men? Truthfully she doubted they had any logical thoughts to begin with. Her expression turned pensive as she continued to eat, her thoughts wandering to petty things that disturbed her. Such as, how double standards were set between men and women. If a man had kissed a woman on the first date, he was congratulated, while if a woman did the same, she would be considered a classic whore. Finally tiring of her own train of thought, Bulma turned her gaze to her husband. His imploring eyes studied her, the dark brown pools softening as she looked into them. She smiled softly, as he offered her a reassuring grin.  
  
"Bulma-babe, what's up?"  
  
"Oh, nothing of importance, Yamcha."  
  
"You sure," he asked, looking genuinely concerned.  
  
"Yes, yes," she assured flippantly, though her tone soft.  
  
"I know exactly how you feel," he piped joyfully.  
  
"You do," her inquiry skeptical.  
  
"I'm anxious for tonight as well," he confessed, his voice low and seductive.  
  
'Nope, no logical thought to be found,' Bulma concluded, as he confided his dirty little secret.  
  
"Yes, a good nights rest does sound appealing," Bulma sighed.  
  
"You don't have to be modest, Bulma-babe," Yamcha squealed. "I'm the only one who can hear."  
  
"I'm serious, Yamcha," she mumbled, a yawn contorting her face. "I'm exhausted."  
  
"Wha- Bulma, we," he choked on his words, "but."  
  
"We have a lifetime together, Yamcha," Bulma scolded. "Don't be so hasty."  
  
Yamcha gulped at her words, a lifetime seemed so, so long.  
  
"This is our wedding night," Yamcha pleaded.  
  
"Did you only marry me for the damn sex," Bulma snarled lowly, making effort to have only Yamcha hear her words.  
  
"No," he wailed incredulously.  
  
"Sometimes I wonder," she spat.  
  
"Oh Bulma-babe," he mused. "You know I love you."  
  
"That's questionable," she scoffed.  
  
"Bulma," he gasped.  
  
"I was only joking," Bulma giggled, her cheeks flushing with amusement.  
  
"Don't scare me like that," Yamcha chided.  
  
"I couldn't resist," she chirped.  
  
He finally joined in her laughter, chuckling joyfully as he watched her in delight.  
  
"Am I too hopeful to believe you were only joking about tonight," Yamcha drawled.  
  
Her azure pools gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment.  
  
"That will be left a secret to be told," Bulma whispered, "by time only."  
  
"Shall we spend our time dancing the night away," Yamcha suggested, hefting himself up from his seat and offering her his hand.  
  
"It is an intriguing proposition," Bulma spoke in a thick English accent.  
  
"Aye, it is milady," Yamcha said, his voice laced like an English courtier, "but it would be no intrigue if it was not you who I was embracing."  
  
Bulma smiled up at him, her eyes glimmering with her youthful love. She gently placed her delicate hand in his own, allowing him to lift her into his arms. As their lips met, her eyes closed, leaving it to her minds eye to form vivid images of erotic fantasy. The feeling of his luscious lips inspired lecherous thoughts that overwhelmed her mind with their realistic feel.  
  
"Ve-ge," Bulma moaned into his lips, never being able to finish her words as his tongue assaulted her mouth.  
  
As soon as his tongue penetrated her lips, it vanished. Bulma's eyes opened lazily from their bliss of pleasure, disconcertedly staring into Yamcha's orbs of dark chocolate, narrowed in suspicion.  
  
"What did you just say," he asked disbelieving.  
  
"I didn't say a damn thing, Yamcha," Bulma chuckled, "Your lips happened to be covering mine."  
  
"But," Yamcha protested in a confused murmur.  
  
"Come on, let's dance," Bulma squealed happily.  
  
'Vegeta? Vegeta!' her mind screamed, how could she think of that bastard? In a romantic moment with her husband no less.  
  
"Okay," Yamcha agreed, clumsily leading Bulma towards the dance floor.  
  
Bulma noticed his distorted steps. Worry started to sweep her mind, causing her to stop mid-step, forcing him to face her.  
  
"Yamcha-chan, are you okay," Bulma questioned softly.  
  
Bulma then realized his gaze wasn't even on her, it was directed else where, and although she didn't want to admit it, it bothered her.  
  
"Y- yeah," he stammered, his voice stricken with an odd emotion. Fear.  
  
Obviously, not convinced with his words, Bulma followed his gaze. She found him staring at... some odd man. He was standing off into the corner, his face hidden with the shadows that bathed his flesh like a cloth of slick velvet. A scowl was evident on the man's face, the prominent shape of his thick lips traced with the thin light that filled the outside patio. Beady eyes glared at them both, though focused on Yamcha's with deadly accuracy. There was no mistaking the fact that the man had his dark eyes set on her husband, and she hadn't the naivety to deny it either.  
  
"Who- who is that Yamcha," Bulma inquired softly, loosing her composure for that second.  
  
"Come on, Bulma, let's get seated at the table," Yamcha urged. "The wedding gifts have yet to be received."  
  
"I want to dance," Bulma protested.  
  
"We don't want to disappoint our quests," he reminded, leading her back to her seat.  
  
"I suppose," she agreed, reluctantly taking her seat.  
  
As soon as she did so, a small line of people formed in front of her. Wide smiles pulled at their lips, filling her with a warm feeling of love. Of course, Goku and Chi Chi were the first, as they approached the newly weds happily.  
  
"Oh, B-chan! I'm so glad you got married," Chi Chi mused, "but your choice is," her voice trailed off, her eyes critically staring at Yamcha.  
  
"Chi Chi," Goku scolded.  
  
Abruptly, laughter ensued, both Chi Chi and Bulma giggling in a fury.  
  
"Hey," Yamcha pouted, a ghost of a smile curving his lips.  
  
"Hey," Bulma responded in greeting, mocking him with a quick wink.  
  
"I don't ever want to witness you guys kiss again," Chi Chi shrieked, her eyes wide as saucers.  
  
"We weren't going to," they both said in unison.  
  
"I know you two are horny dogs, and I'm not about let you guys hurt my virgin eyes," Chi Chi informed.  
  
"But, Chi," Goku mumbled, scratching the back of his head confusedly, "We kinda already DO that- stuff."  
  
A bright flush swept over Chi Chi's face like a veil of silken crimson. An uncertain smile curved her lips, before she turned, promptly scolding Goku with a light slap on the head.  
  
"Sorry, Chi," Goku apologized weakly with a light chuckle.  
  
"Here you go, you two," Chi Chi beamed, handing over a small envelope, "It's a little something that me and Goku raised for you guys to enjoy."  
  
"Oh, Chi," Bulma cried, joy evident in her voice, "You shouldn't have!"  
  
"B-chan, don't give me one of those lame lines! You know you're dieing to see how much you got, and go out and buy that satin dress we saw the other day," Chi Chi interrupted.  
  
"Sometimes, Chi," Bulma growled in mock menace, "I think you know me too well."  
  
"That's always possible," Chi Chi giggled, leading Goku to the dance floor, allowing another couple to approach the couple.  
  
"Thank you," Yamcha said gratefully, as they continued to receive numerous gifts.  
  
"Oh, Tracy, I thought you weren't going to make it," Yamcha exclaimed, as a woman of mid-age approached them.  
  
"I got some time off from work, just for you, Yah-chan," she chimed.  
  
"Yes, well, thank you for coming," Bulma piped.  
  
"No problem,-" the woman drawled, trying to recall her name.  
  
"Bulma," Bulma finished wearily.  
  
"Oh, yes, Bulma! Well, hope you like the gift," Tracy smiled, handing over a small box.  
  
"Sure will," Yamcha mused.  
  
"Yes, yes," Bulma mumbled, "next."  
  
"Bulma," Yamcha chided, "she's a nice girl."  
  
"Of course she is, Yah-chan," Bulma replied mockingly.  
  
Their conversation was cut short, as a looming figure shadowed their bickering forms. They were inclined to believe the being, who'd apparently taken afoot in front of them, was rather intimidating, and with justified origins. Though the sight they were both met with was of contradicting aspects. A lean form, the man had, with broad shoulders and exquisite definition. His height wasn't the least bit impressive, but he still held a good two inches compared to Bulma's length, and despite his stature, he held himself with an ambiguous aura of arrogance. His sculpted body was hidden beneath a lavish bash suit of the most desired material throughout the known world. Unlike when Bulma had first laid eyes upon him, several buttons were left unconnected, revealing the constricting white shirt beneath. Imaginations were left to their own accord, as the material of the undershirt caressed his flesh like a second skin. A great generosity to any prying women's eyes, but a complete atrocity to males that might had been wishing to impress others with their own attributes. For in all honesty, Bulma couldn't degrade his absolute masculine beauty in even spite. Although she was certain of who she beheld, curiosity led her to gaze into deep ebony depths of eternal expanse.  
  
It was him.  
  
"Don't lead me to aspire disturbances in the marriage have already arose," his deep-throated voice ventured, "for a lady such as yourself is better sheltered by bindings of vows. The world holds," he paused, his eyes challenging with thick sensuality, "dangers."  
  
"Do you deem me too weak to meet such standards," she countered.  
  
"Certainly not," he spoke, eyebrows peaking with amusement, "though perhaps my tongue has run off to defenses."  
  
"Against," she implored softly, inquisitive as to what his words were implying.  
  
"Something that I may not be able to resist," was his reply, a smirk dancing along his lips, as he gazed at her intently, his eyes traveling over the soft flesh of her lips.  
  
Bulma's cheeks flushed with color at his bold remark, causing her to turn to her husband. She found him utterly speechless, his face drained of color, leaving the pale white sheet she now inspected, completely bemused. His once bright eyes no longer gleamed; they were but a vacant hollow of missing enthusiasm. What had him so worked up? Surely the short transfer of words between herself and Vegeta were not the cause.  
  
"Yamcha," Bulma probed softly, attempting to bring him out of his peculiar state.  
  
"Are you not pleasured by my presence," Vegeta inquired, directing his seemingly dumbfounded words toward her husband, "dear cousin." He finished in a tone drenched with bitterness, and hidden malice.  
  
Despite the impudent tone of his words, Bulma missed the disguised contempt, simply too concerned for her beloved husband. She stroked his face tenderly, successfully bringing Yamcha back from his delusional affixation.  
  
"V- ve- Vegeta," Yamcha's voice shook. "What are you doing here," Yamcha demanded, completely ignoring Bulma's presence.  
  
"To grant you my best wishes, of course," Vegeta responded as expected of any present guest.  
  
What else would lead any being to a marital ceremony?  
  
"How," Yamcha stammered, before correcting his composure quickly. "What might those wishes be?"  
  
"As expected of any member of the family," Vegeta assured, his face indifferent to any emotions that clawed at his mind.  
  
"Family," Yamcha muttered absently, fear twisting at his stomach with the gruesome reality.  
  
"Am I haste to conclude you have deliberately forgotten my family," Vegeta said, much more as a fact rather than a question, his tone held no resentment, but his eyes flared with warning.  
  
"Y-your," Yamcha's voice caught in his throat at the very thought.  
  
"Father has passed into the next dimension."  
  
"You never told me you had an uncle, I thought your parents were both the only child," Bulma interrupted scornfully.  
  
"I don't," Yamcha briefed.  
  
"Well Vegeta said father, so I know I'm not hasty to assume that the man would be family," Bulma snarled impatiently.  
  
"We have no relations any longer," Vegeta explained, his voice laced was finality.  
  
Yamcha's eyes swam with unadulterated fear, his body froze, flesh crawling with chilling meaning intended by the words just spoken.  
  
"Yamcha," Bulma chided in a whisper, "you're being awfully rude to Vegeta."  
  
Despite her efforts, Vegeta had heard. A thick eyebrow rose at her statement. For if memory served him right, she wasn't exactly an innocent...but honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way. She was impetuous, stubborn, irascible, and completely...intriguing?  
  
"You know him," Yamcha yelped, nearly in hysterics.  
  
"We shared a dance, but what difference does that make?"  
  
'Why hadn't I recognized him earlier, when he had been dancing with my fiance? Wife!', Yamcha's mind screamed, giving him temporary relief from the fear that was slowly drowning him with accumulating self-pity.  
  
"A gift," Vegeta's voice cut in, "from myself."  
  
In his hand lay a delicate envelope, enclosed with a thick, black, seal with intricate engravings. Bulma gladly accepted the object within his outstretched hand, smiling widely. If he had money to spare, then surely whatever lay within the envelope she now held in her hand, was of generous amount.  
  
"And most graciously accepted," Bulma piped sweetly.  
  
"Odd, for you fail to strike me as a humble woman," he taunted.  
  
"Appearances can be deceiving," she countered, eyes narrowing to icy-blue slits of anger.  
  
"I suppose they can," he teased lightly.  
  
"What are you implying," she hissed, although in reality she was intrigued at what other witty comment he had in mind.  
  
"Well, nor do you strike me as lady that has knowledge pertaining to dance."  
  
"Knowledge is obtained, not a self-given attribute," Bulma decreed haughtily.  
  
"Then might you indulge me in a number," Vegeta spoke monotone, but his eyes spoke volumes with their provocative gaze, "I assure you that knowledge may be obtained through the experience."  
  
Bulma's jaw might have dropped had it not been for the stubbornness willing her to maintain her composure while within the insufferable man's presence. How dare he! Though what surprised her even more was the absence of Yamcha's jealousy, along with any disapproval.  
  
'The bastard is trying to manipulate me,' Bulma seethed inwardly at Vegeta. 'All so I'll dance with him!'  
  
Resolving that she wouldn't succumb to his devious little scheme, she did what she knew would put the plan at fault. She asked permission, from her husband...  
  
"Yamcha, dear, would you mind if I joined Mr. Ouji in a dance," she questioned, her voice coaxed into a sugary sweet tone.  
  
"No, you may do so."  
  
This time, Bulma's jaw did drop, openly revealing her surprise. He didn't even pause! Before she could make any more a fool of herself, a large hand emerged in her vision. It's exquisite slender digits and tawny flesh opened in an inviting gesture. As she placed her own delicate hand within his, she eyed the contrast of her pale flesh enraptured by the tawny- olive form of his hand. Despite the obvious differences, the touch companied by his grasp sent sensations gliding throughout her body, the simplistic motion as his hand clasped her own oddly more than its usual pretenses. He led her from her seat to the dance floor, immediately bringing her within his securing embrace.  
  
As Yamcha watched his wife be entranced by his mortal enemy, he couldn't help but groan in stifled pain. Chemistry existed between the two, this was evident by the very sight of them together, but Yamcha would never know how deep it ran, and honestly, he was content with that. Though if this small amount of closeness between his wife and Vegeta granted him the momentary absence of the man, he would have to accept that. If his own skin could be saved, then he could survive the everlasting moments of their dance.  
  
"How did he find me," Yamcha pleaded, searching for unanswered questions within himself. 


	3. Chapter Three

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
Swaying rhythmically with the enchanting music, Bulma felt shivers stroke her spine. Despite the incessant warmth his body granted, he provoked chilling sensations of anticipation to run like rapid rivers of great magnitude throughout her entire body. Further capturing her senses into his provocative lure. The dance she now enacted, was like no other. She was no longer a participant of cultural movements, or set steps to follow. She was the dance, along with the one that held her, to intertwine into each other's embrace through methods beyond the realm she knew. Every sense of body- of her very being was filled with his touch, his taste, his heartbeat, his scent- his very presence.  
  
He filled her like a liquid flame of passion, seeping into her pores, heating her body with the fire that burned within him...bestowing seeds of desire that never could be tamed. And she did the same, her essence caressing his core with the manipulative hands of sensuality, molding him to her own movements. And they were undoubtedly provocative movements.  
  
His hands rested on her hips, smoothly stroking her, as she glided to meet his body at every step taken, uniting their bodies in the constant spiral of movements. The muscles beneath his velvet flesh sent satisfying sensations throughout her body as she felt them flex, straining to further mold into her touch. His gentle breath trickled on the contour of her neck, as his body was pressed against her back, before letting her unravel from his arms, only to return once more. She had returned to be placed front wards into his encompassing embrace. His deep gaze of darkness was laced with passion enflamed by his impenetrable charisma, all the more seducing her body...her entire being to his will. Desire truly is a powerful thing. Though evidently, passion engaged with the caress of your desire, is so much more.  
  
But when the feeling is reciprocated?  
  
Simply enough it produced an eternal need, one never to be fulfilled, only to be sought more of as time progressed. Never to quail from the elements that surrounded them, the beings that interacted with them, nor the emotions that could separate them. It was immortal. And, honestly, Bulma felt just that as she remained in his masculine embrace...even as the music ceased to play. Leaving them in what seemed to be silence. Except for the pair that stood in the center of the dance floor, silence wasn't existent.  
  
Their breath was heavy, coming out in deep, accumulative heaves. Exhaustion. Although the dance performed was not advanced in its steps, the complexity was raised to phenomenal levels by the acquisition of deep emotions. Though it did not hinder the moment that now enraptured the pair, as they gazed absorbedly into the others eyes, unconsciously remembering each other's every aspect.  
  
"Learn something new," Vegeta teased, his voice barely coming out as a whisper.  
  
"Only as much as you," she countered softly, her voice challenging.  
  
"Perhaps," he considered, pausing thoughtfully.  
  
"What did you do to Yamcha," Bulma probed, avoiding hearing his advancing words.  
  
"What ever do you mean?"  
  
"Don't play the innocent party, what did you do," she snapped impatiently.  
  
"You do have a habit of ruining moments, don't you?"  
  
"I do not-" Bulma defended, before stopping abruptly. "Don't you try and change the subject!"  
  
"I would never," he gasped mockingly.  
  
Bulma watched the movements of his thick lips for a moment, dazedly wondering what they tasted like. Quickly correcting herself, she averted her eyes away from him for a moment. No matter what the damn man did, it was always beguiling! She doubted even seeing him drenched in mud would be unappetizing...on second thought she would probably join him.  
  
'Arg!' Bulma screamed inwardly. It was infuriating! And he had been mocking her no less, and yet her thoughts ventured so far.  
  
"Drop the act, and fess up," she demanded in growl, "Because if you don't, I'll make it my business to torture your deserving ass!"  
  
'Oh that was original,' Bulma mentally slapped herself.  
  
"Coming from your foul mouth, I believe that might be a pleasurable experience," Vegeta chuckled, watching Bulma flush with embarrassment.  
  
"I hate you," she snarled, storming away from his insufferable presence.  
  
Bulma spotted her friend Chi Chi off to the corner, quietly speaking with Goku. Sighing with relief, she stalked towards them.  
  
"That man is the most ignorant, supercilious, egotistical, intolerable," Bulma rambled in a fury, as Chi Chi quickly turned to see her seething best friend. "Ahh!" Bulma wailed finally.  
  
"Who B-Chan? I'll kick Yamcha's ass!" Chi Chi declared, her mood swiftly rising with the rage of her friend.  
  
"No, Chi," Bulma chided.  
  
"But why," Chi Chi asked exasperatedly, "I want to help you!"  
  
"Be my guest," Bulma huffed, "but it isn't Yamcha."  
  
"I thought she already was your guest," Goku mumbled bemused.  
  
"Who, then?" Chi Chi pressed, ignoring her husband's idiotic comment.  
  
"Mr. Ouji."  
  
"Vegeta! What'd he do this time," Chi Chi growled, "I swear the ass is always up to something."  
  
"You know him, Chi," Bulma blinked.  
  
"Oh, well I met him today," Chi Chi giggled nervously.  
  
"Oh," Bulma mumbled suspiciously, before dismissing it hastily. She was too mad to think of such petty things.  
  
"Yes, well that man- if you can call him that- is the most," Bulma hissed, "most," she finished lamely in a shout.  
  
"Most handsome thing you've ever set eyes upon," Chi Chi teased.  
  
"Precisely, and to make-" Bulma raged. "Chi Chi Mau," Bulma exclaimed.  
  
"I'm not the one who agreed," Chi Chi chuckled.  
  
Despite her best efforts, Bulma started giggling as well.  
  
"I suppose it is minutely humorous," Bulma mumbled begrudgingly.  
  
"Suppose? Minutely? It was hilarious, B-Chan, and you know it!"  
  
"Fine, Chi, it was a crack up, but that's over now," Bulma dismissed, attempting to end her friends senseless laughter.  
  
"Right," Chi Chi said exaggeratedly, still laughing.  
  
"Fine, you go ahead and laugh to your heart's content, Chi," Bulma huffed, stalking away, though only mildly angered with her friends behavior.  
  
A satin expanse of eternal darkness spread its clutches across the sky, coaxing the stars of great distance to illuminate its blackened depths. Cool night winds ruffling past, it was serene at the chapel's outdoor courtyard, the open veranda beautiful underneath the hazy vastness of night. Sighing belatedly to her own discomfort, she sauntered through the few remaining couples dancing, slowly padding towards her husband. As she approached, his eyes shot up to meet her own. She immediately noted that they still held the melancholy expression of lost hope deep within their depths. He seemed so distant, lost in the fear that over-ridded any conscious thoughts. There was something amidst and Bulma had every intention of discovering what it was, and now.  
  
"Yamcha, I'm fed up with men's crap," Bulma warned haughtily, "so just give it to me straight." With a moment's pause, she affirmed softly, "I want the truth."  
  
"I'll tell you later," he comforted, hopeful that he'd dissuade her from discovering exactly what she asked for. The truth.  
  
"No," she asserted, "I want to hear it, now."  
  
"It's simply not the best time."  
  
"I'll decide that," Bulma confided roughly, "Now start with the beginning."  
  
Opting that tempting his wife's own fury was unwise, he did as asked. "Ve- He's my cousin," Yamcha stammered, oddly unable to repeat the man's name.  
  
"That's a start," she urged, "So, go on."  
  
"Truthfully, I never got along with 'em."  
  
'That's understandable,' Bulma wanted to say, but held her sharp tongue, unwilling to stop the confession.  
  
"And well, one day he right ahead and went ballistic," Yamcha declared. "Claimed me a traitor and tried to kill me."  
  
Bulma gasped.  
  
"That is," Yamcha continued, "after he stole all my money, destroyed my reputation in the family, and left me a broken man."  
  
"When did this happen," Bulma asked, completely speechless at the horrors that the man that had unwittingly ensnared her passion, had committed against her love, Yamcha.  
  
"Six years have past," he whimpered softly, taking Bulma's hand assuredly. "My angel, I simply don't know how I survived."  
  
His words echoed in her mind, 'My angel'. Vegeta had called her such, except coming from Vegeta's full burgundy lips; it seemed to mean so much more. Everything about the man was intensified to conform to the being he was. His emotions could be measured by no mortal soul. Vegeta, simply put, was nothing ordinary in the word. Reminiscing in moments she had gazed within his onyx depths, Bulma remembered only one emotion present. Lust. Yet, it was deeper, its sensuality outranked any form of lust. It was a desire enflamed by his essence, and he was a man of passion, nothing left in mid-decision. It was either disgust or desire, hate or ...love?  
  
The thought of having a man such as Vegeta hate you made her very being shiver, and if Yamcha obtained his hate, she had remorse for him already. But, as expected, thoughts of the opposite nature made her shiver as well. Except the shiver that quaked within her soul was not of fear, but of longing. To be loved by a man that knew not of boundaries was ultimately as enticing as Vegeta himself.  
  
Bulma had been so enthralled by her thoughts; she failed to notice how long she'd been fantasizing. Once entering suitable thoughts of a married woman, her mind snapped with accusation.  
  
"Yamcha, I thought you said six years ago you obtained the sports company share?" Bulma inquired curtly with a raised brow.  
  
'I told her that!' he asked, kicking himself inwardly.  
  
"Well- I- ah," he stammered, "I had some remaining funds, up in Switzerland."  
  
"Oh," she responded blandly.  
  
"But, as you see," Yamcha said, head bowing in shame, "I'm still inwardly pained by the betrayal of my own kin."  
  
"Inwardly? I thought you said he attempted to murder you?"  
  
"Aye," he assured, "he did indeed, though I always outranked him in strength."  
  
"He tried to kill you with his bare hands," she shrieked.  
  
"Well, after I got the revolver from his grasp," he explained, "Yes."  
  
"Oh, my dear Yamcha-Chan!" Bulma gasped, bringing him into her embrace.  
  
Of course he gladly accepted, laying his head on her bosom. They remained within each other's arms for quite some time, before rudely being interrupted by a cold voice.  
  
"I'm making my leave," the monotone voice informed, "And as tradition foresees it, I must grant the newly weds notice."  
  
Composing herself, she turned to face the man, the very man who had been plaguing her thoughts.  
  
"Hopefully that departure is from our lives, entirely," Bulma spoke, a tight smile stretching her lips.  
  
"I would be more than satisfied to oblige," Vegeta said, his voice bitter. He was genuinely offended by her sharp words, and did little to suppress the malice that dripped into his ebony orbs.  
  
She had been right. The man truly had no misconception on what he felt, and apparently, with her sharp tongue, she had earned his hate. Had her words affected him so?  
  
"Good," Yamcha joined, his voice much stronger than how he'd previously been.  
  
Understandably, both Bulma and Vegeta were shocked by his blunt approval. It wasn't that either of them suspected he thought differently, but for him to voice such an opinion was flabbergasting.  
  
Vegeta's dark coal orbs pierced Yamcha's defenses, ripping past his front with ease. His intimidating glare struck Yamcha to the quick, making him stutter incoherently.  
  
"Non presumere per parlare a me in tale modo," Vegeta growled, the foreign language rolling off his tongue with the suited accent, his words smooth with confidence, "Non si dimentichi mai che lei inferiore, cugino, e malgrado le sue pietose convinzioni...il passato adesso il presente." After a momentary pause, he finished off with a malicious tone, "Lei non puo evadere il futuro."  
  
(Translation: "Don't presume to speak to me in such a manner," Vegeta growled, the foreign language rolling off his tongue with the suited accent, his words smooth with confidence, "Never forget you are inferior, cousin, and despite your pitiful beliefs...the past is now the present." After a momentary pause, he finished off with a malicious tone, "You can't escape the future.")  
  
Yamcha squirmed beneath Vegeta's penetrating glare, rendering him immobile within the presence of his nemesis.  
  
"Perdonarme," Yamcha's voice pleaded desperately, hoping that the past could be forgotten, as buried, as he would be if things turned to havoc.  
  
(Translation: "Forgive me," Yamcha's voice pleaded desperately, hoping that the past could be forgotten, as buried, as he would be if things turned to havoc.)  
  
"It's too late for that," Vegeta said, his voice low, bearing indifference to all that surrounded him.  
  
"Scuse le piu profonde," Vegeta said, turning his attention to Bulma once more, "my Angel." His last words were whispered, as he leaned closer to her, gently taking her hand within his own.  
  
(Translation: "Deepest apologies," Vegeta said, turning his attention to Bulma once more, "my Angel.")  
  
She was sure she had been the only to hear his soft words, as they were spoken with such gentleness, his voice still echoed with the passing winds. His eyes were mesmerizing, never breaking contact with her curious azure pools, as he placed his lips tenderly on the palm of her hand. The kiss would seem chaste to any who witnessed it, though the tantalizing way he brushed his lips on her ivory flesh, made it seem completely illicit.  
  
Vegeta's eyes caressed her face, seemingly stroking her with the deep gaze he held to her. He slowly retreated, gradually taking his masculine hand from her grasp, for she had unconsciously wrapped her fingers about it, not wishing to let go. A sensual smirk curved his lips, as he let his hand graze her own, just to maintain contact for a moment longer. Once released, he vanished into the shadows, not even his retreating form to view.  
  
So concentrated on the man that had just disappeared from her sight- knowingly from her very life, Bulma hadn't noticed the two men that departed with him, exiting at the far corners of the veranda, and simply disappearing. Just as he did.  
  
Although she was resentful to admit it, he had branded her. Eternally imprinted his passion into her mind...into her very soul. A flame still stirred within her, only awakened to the fire of perpetual pinnacle by his touch. He was the most exquisite being she had ever laid eyes upon, and she wouldn't be too discontented to remember that. No, actually quite the opposite. Never would she allow herself to forget this day, her wedding day. Though, oddly enough, for very different reasons that so many others claimed. It was he, she would remember, and everything his presence had granted.  
  
It was not love she felt for Vegeta, infatuation perhaps, but love did not grip her. It was unhindered desire. He would haunt her dreams, and her thoughts, though not her heart. Though her soul had been tainted by his touch, he had not reached her heart, and of this she was thankful. She loved Yamcha, of this she was sure, and after being bound to him upon this fateful day, she didn't believe she could bare the weight of loving another.  
  
"Good-bye," Bulma whispered, her voice as soft as his had been, simply to fall upon the deaf ears of the night, "Vegeta Ouji."  
  
Shortly after, the newly weds had made their leave, wholesomely accepting all the embraces of their kin and friends before finally being able to retreat to their apartment. Luckily the ride home was not excessively long, for they resided only 5 blocks from the chapel, and for this Bulma was thankful. Any longer and she would have fallen to the bleak darkness of sleep.  
  
Once inside, she placed the gifts, presented to her earlier that day, on the counter, with a sigh of relief. Glancing at her husband, she offered a warming smile.  
  
"I love you," she mused tenderly, her eyes slightly moistening with happiness.  
  
"As I do you," he assured, returning her smile.  
  
Before she broke down crying with immeasurable joy, and an odd underlining of sorrow, Bulma decided to lighten the mood.  
  
"Let's open the gifts!" She squealed, bouncing lightly with her words.  
  
"Now?" He asked, astounded.  
  
"Of course, silly! We wouldn't want to disappoint our guests by waiting," Bulma countered loftily with a sly grin.  
  
After having his own words shoved back at him, Yamcha conceded reluctantly. 


	4. Chapter Four

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
Shortly after the 7th gift had been opened, Yamcha had simply backed away, letting his wife expose the gifts herself. At times like these, she acted so juvenile...like such a child. Though her actions only made him smile, seemingly enjoying the moment of her presence, but his eyes were realistically reveling in the display. Her breasts, straining against the small tank top, of which she had changed into earlier, were enticing. She was enthusiastic about her current job, furthermore creating a spectacle of herself. If Bulma wasn't so thrilled with the different things she discovered underneath the wrappings, the decorated bags, or the sophisticated envelopes filled with offerings of her wedding day, she would have reprimanded Yamcha for his audacity.  
  
Bulma had tears in her eyes; overjoyed with the different items her closest of friends thought suited her. It was a sentimental connection felt for the offerings that made her smile, emotions radiating from her being. She suppressed only one of the emotions that wished to be revealed, as it laced her thoughts with its imperious presence. It conquered her within, but she'd be damned if her composure was shattered from such a petty feeling.  
  
She had been right, 'he' did haunt her thoughts, never ceasing to penetrate her barriers. He had provoked her into entering a maze of desires- one that never could be solved, never won. She was lost. Searching frantically for a way out, but left with no choice except to reach out for him, to seek his touch...his very passion. Lights flickered within the distance, but she was blinded, not able to see what lay beyond the doors she never knew existed. Touch is what led her...and everything relating to the sense always led her to him. He had become an unattainable desire, always so far, yet so close.  
  
Such contradictions were all that filled her mind.  
  
Nothing would ever fit into proper place; eternally outcast by the narrow path his passion had set her onto. Vegeta. The name persisted to echo in her mind, chiming past her attempts to free herself. She was trapped by her own desire, by the flames of passion that surrounded her. To retreat would mean her ruin, for a life without the ardor he had introduced her to, was merely not worth living. The sensations that had encompassed her body from his touch had raised her expectations, the pinnacle ever rising.  
  
He had tainted her.  
  
But she was not defiled from his sensual flame, only molded to fit it. She was a changed woman, whether she would like to admit it or not. Perhaps she was weaker, or even stronger, but it meant so little now that he was gone. Bulma still had her affectionate heart, her compassionate soul, her articulate mind, and her witty temperament...but all her desires were lost to him, and his mesmerizing passion. He truly was fire. The silly phrase 'never to play with fire' had never meant so much. She was drawn to him, yet warded off by the lecherous heat he emitted. There was a great possibility she could be burnt, but when he held her, all logical thought was as distant as the stars that littered the expanse of the heavens.  
  
Perhaps she should get a hobby. She pondered the thought, for everything else that crossed her mind's eye was all so bizarre. Reminiscing on things that were out of reach was not her idea of true sanity. With resentment towards her own self, Bulma ceased all thoughts, successfully ending the berating of her weary mind.  
  
As she glanced mildly interested at the remaining gifts, she realized she had left his gift untouched. It was an unconscious action, but she couldn't help but scold herself for it. She was being inconceivably foolish! Quickly dismissing Vegeta from her thoughts thoroughly, Bulma reached for the intricate envelope. Holding it lightly, she opened it gently, careful not to rupture the exquisite designs that decorated the paper. It struck her as slightly odd that the thing had a seal to clamp it closed, and even more peculiar at the fact it was made of wax, just as people had done so in times before the current day and age. It was dark ebony, along with some emblem shaping the small circle, but Bulma didn't bother to examine the thing. It wasn't the gift after all. Making haste removal of what lay inside, she discovered herself grasping a wad of money.  
  
The bills were perfectly straight, as if they had just come out of the press, and were layered on top one another with not even one crease. Bulma was stunned, and then significantly angered at the fact they were one- dollar bills. Her mouth was agape as she removed the bill on the top of the stack, oddly finding herself looking at thousand dollar bills. Before he even met her, he had planned to taunt her! The impetuous man was deranged! After making quick inspection, she came to conclude he had given over twenty thousand to her and Yamcha. The 'over' was the two dollars he had placed so wickedly at both the top and bottom of the stack, deviously playing a cruel joke on the newly weds. But, even despite his conniving little act, it was still overwhelming that he had offered so much, and without even being asked. Let alone invited.  
  
'Great, another reason to think about that damn man,' Bulma raged within, even though she was genuinely appreciative of his generous gift. There was potential that he was kinder than first thought, but...  
  
That was HIGHLY unlikely.  
  
On second thought, it was impossible, literally. Vegeta must have been the haughtiest, most despicable person ever to grace the earth. Bulma was sure of this! He was a nuisance, a complete menace...especially to her. Growling indignantly, Bulma transferred her gaze and thoughts to Yamcha. He was eyeing her in a curious manner, or rather her body, her chest to be precise.  
  
"Yamcha!"  
  
"Oh- wha- huh?" he stammered, his head jerking up to her face, finally.  
  
"I may be your wife, but I'm not a damn piece of meat," Bulma asserted incredulously.  
  
"No," he assured, "more like candy. My candy."  
  
Bulma was offended, to say the least. She tried to be scrupulous about choosing her retort,  
  
"I'm not something to be owned," Bulma clarified roughly, "I'm a woman, and with that I bare integrity. Dare you ever compare me to some sexual piece of ass, I will be quick to prove you otherwise," with a threatening glare she added, " 'Cause come to think of it, I've never heard of candy kicking some ass."  
  
Yep, still a woman of youth. That evident enough with her ending threat; go figure what happened about being scrupulous...  
  
"I didn't mean it like that," Yamcha whimpered, wincing at the narrow slits that responded his plea.  
  
"You can redeem yourself by showing me some respect," she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.  
  
"I can think of several ways," he purred, eyebrows rising suggestively.  
  
The abrupt snarl a response enough, as well as the accommodating pillow shoved into his face, making quick restraint from any protests that were sure to come from Yamcha. Moments after, a loud bang sounded in his ears, informing him not only that Bulma was infuriated with him, but he would also be sleeping on the couch on his wedding night. Bulma detested not being taken seriously and Yamcha had tested that notion clearly on this night, resulting in Bulma's departure into their bedroom. The light click signaling that she locked the door immediately made him abandon any attempts to ease his way into her good graces, or for the night, at least. His apology would have to wait until morning, and honestly, they were both content with that fact. Yamcha because he knew nothing would occur within the bedroom, even if he were inside it, and Bulma because she simply did not wish to speak to him. The small quarrel was nothing serious, just a side effect of sore feet, and tired limbs. Not to mention headaches in Bulma's case. Something seemed to forever cloud her mind...or perhaps, someone?  
  
After some time simply fondling with his fingers, Yamcha lifted the envelope Bulma had discarded earlier. His heart thundered in his chest as he saw the insignia that had sealed the seemingly insignificant piece. The thick, black wax was molded perfectly into a spades.  
  
It was the black of spades.  
  
He had feared such a threat was present. Vegeta was a man skilled at arts far exceeding menial things such as dance. Yamcha started to tremble, his throat slowly constricting with the mounting apprehension, his entire body threatening to collapse under the new weight of morbid fear. Yamcha knew exactly what the ostensibly meaningless symbol signified.  
  
The black of spades always meant death, and was only sent with that precise intent. Consequently, in this case, it represented a reaper of deadly consequence. It had been Vegeta's personal emblem from the first day Yamcha had met his ambiguous cousin. Apparently, the wedding gift had came with an expense...  
  
His life.  
  
Meanwhile, In The Bedroom...  
  
As Bulma rest her head on her feathered pillow, she let out a sigh of relief. She was looking forward to the vast darkness of sleep, and the escape it's eternal void granted, where thoughts could not torment her any longer. Her body ached with dull, sore sensations, but her soul ached with desire. She hadn't escaped yet. Vegeta remained in her thoughts, even as drifted off to the realms of peaceful sleep...  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Bulma's head jerked up, her movements ruffling the sheets that still covered her body. She had heard a sound, almost like the faint breath of another being. An intruder. Her heart began to pound, her blood racing with the anxiety at discovering what remain in her bedchambers. It was still dark, notifying her that she hadn't slept long at all, but it did not comfort her. Whether or not she would be able to escape was of slim chance. She only wished that she hadn't locked the door earlier, if not as an easier means of escape, to let Yamcha rescue her. Damn!  
  
"Who's there," she demanded, refraining from showing the fear that gripped at her.  
  
"My Angel, do not fear me," a timber voice coaxed, as if reading her thoughts.  
  
That voice, it was him. It was Vegeta, but how? Bulma simply couldn't understand how he had gotten here, in her room no less. Though what tormented her more was why?  
  
"I'd be damned if I did," Bulma hissed, reluctant to show the desperate desire that enflamed her.  
  
"Then perhaps," Vegeta implored, "You damn me as well."  
  
"Wha- what do you mean," Bulma inquired, she was caught off guard by his confession.  
  
"But then, who's to say desire would condemn my soul," he pondered, his eyes finding her own, penetrating the depths and barriers of her being.  
  
"Would you forsake yourself to find out," Bulma murmured, her voice as soft as the deep breaths that expanded her chest rhythmically with the beat of her heart. She couldn't believe she had just said that!  
  
"Yes," he admitted, "But would you?" his voice a soft whisper.  
  
The question was simple, yet the answer to such an inquiry would be by far complex. Was she willing to rebel against the vows of eternal bondage? Could she? Consequences stretched past understanding, but compensation was evident within his onyx orbs. Could she renounce her love for another, if for only this one night? Bulma knew better, it was wrong, a complete blasphemy to her virtues, yet as the opportunity unveiled itself before her, she had a deep yearning to surrender to its will...To render her being to her deepest desire.  
  
Was passion so strong?  
  
As she gazed pensively into his dark depths, Bulma knew it was. With her gaze she reached out to him, willing herself to touch him, just as she knew he would return the caresses she offered him. To vocalize her acceptance was probably the most difficult thing Bulma ever had to accomplish, but she did,  
  
"Yes," she answered, as her heart started pounding at the sound of her own voice.  
  
He made no reply; the only notification that he had heard her was the steps he took towards her. Vegeta approached slowly, as if rushing would make her turn away. To regret the words she had just spoken. His whole body tensed, muscles straining against his velvety flesh, his dark eyes never leaving her gaze. Once at the foot of the bed, his hand reached out to her, stroking Bulma's face with his slender digits. At the very first skin contact, her eyes veiled themselves, simply reveling in his touch, digesting every sensation he provoked...every blissful feeling. With tenderness that could only be justified as a lover's caress, he stroked her lips, lulling her to whisper her approval. Her sapphire eyes danced with the passion that enflamed her soul, all evoked from the simple touch he offered. Light shivers began to stroke her spine, the pleasure of his touch piercing her flesh like thorns of the most exotic rose. Bulma's vision hazed with the overwhelming sensations that rocked her body, but she dare not close her eyes. Dare not risk his departure. Taking his hand within her own, she led him down to her, bringing him to lie by her side.  
  
Submitting to the desire to stroke his face as he did hers, Bulma reached out her delicate hand, gently letting her dainty fingers trace the lines of his jaw, continuing to his full lips. His flesh felt like satin beneath the soft brushes of her fingers. A low purr vibrated within his chest, sending delightful chills about her body. He lay on his side, facing her as she continued her ministrations, granting her a devilish smirk as erotic reprisal.  
  
Bulma didn't understand what willed her to make such drastic decisions, or what made her invite him to her bed. She felt as if she had no real control over herself, and that frightened her. All logical thoughts were crushed as his lips captured hers, slowly persuading her with the light pressure of the smooth flesh to grant him entrance. His tongue eased into her agape mouth like liquid sensuality, intimately tasting her. Lightly sucking on her bottom lip, he lured her to taste of him, to savor the sweet trace his being held.  
  
Unlike so many other kisses she had shared with others, Bulma could not classify the manipulation of his tongue to be distasteful or uncertain. Everything he did was done with confidence and accuracy...an intimacy she had never experienced before. He progressed to lure her into the moment, invitingly suckling on her swollen lips, as well as caressing her tongue with his own, giving spectacular precision to tap into her desires.  
  
Meanwhile, In The Living Room...  
  
Yamcha shot up from the couch, his temples throbbing with his agitated pulse. His blood rushed through his veins, all the more making him wheeze with the overbearing agony. How had he missed it before? He wasn't sure, but it no longer mattered. Not even his most horrifying nightmares could compare to the morbid reality he now lived in. If only he misinterpreted the intentions of his nemesis...but despite his incessant hope, he knew Vegeta never made mistakes. He was a man of perfection, though Yamcha hated to admit it, and in the case of the present, he knew there was no escape.  
  
Vegeta had never failed a mission, and there was little doubt he wouldn't hold that position. Yamcha just simply couldn't understand why he had waited this long. Why wait until he was happy? He knew the answer to that, the malicious bastard had the mind to cause him the most suffering possible, and how accurate Vegeta was, for Yamcha was sure he couldn't live without Bulma, knowing that he had been the cause for her untimely demise.  
  
Gulping down the vile rising in his throat, he sighed deeply. Petty wishes that Vegeta had given him the gift filled his mind, yet he knew it was useless.  
  
By giving Bulma the envelope, Vegeta clearly intended to take her life. Not Yamcha's.  
  
Though Yamcha was sure that was set at a later date. A silent tear fled from his swollen eyes, cascading down his pale flesh like a shard of ice. Depression enveloped his being, swallowing his thoughts, letting him drown within the hate and sorrow that boiled within his heart. His eyes were clouded, granting him the distance he desired from reality. But his being was not allowed the peace he yearned for, as he heard a muffled noise coming from his bedroom. Yamcha's eyes shot open, immediately becoming alert with the concern that sobered his thoughts. Rushing to the door, he twisted at the knob, but consequently found himself still locked out. Screaming out, he pounded on the door, hoping that perhaps Bulma would respond.  
  
No such luck.  
  
Everything turned silent, the batter of his fists the only disturbance in the early hours of the morning. His heartbeat leaped with each second, praying that she was unharmed, but he had a distinct feeling something was amiss.  
  
The small 'eep' he had heard before was one of agony, he was sure, yet there were no more. Like a swift wave had crushed any remaining sounds, silence had ensued, leaving him in the darkness of uncertainty.  
  
For he knew not, if breath still entered her lungs, or if she lay motionless at loss of life...  
  
Vegeta always got the job done. 


	5. Chapter Five

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
Despite the noise that ricocheted off the walls of the bedroom, nothing greeted its fervor caller. Yamcha continued pounding his fists against the door, the one barrier that remained separating him from dire knowledge.  
  
Whether his wife was alive, or not.  
  
With renewed energy, Yamcha struck the door, his hope flickering with the single fact she could be saved. Anger swarmed his mind, for he could only wish that he hadn't bought a door so damn thick! It proved to be a nuisance, as well as a constant reminder that he wasn't strong enough to break it down. Agitation on his part would be an understatement, though he vowed he wouldn't fail Bulma. Five minutes had passed, but any notification that his beloved was in the living, had yet to present itself.  
  
He pounded harder.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
The incessant pounding vibrated within her ears, consistent with the throb pulsating in her temples. Pain pierced her flesh like splinters of bitter poison, rendering her body immobile. A groan of displeasure permeated the disrupted silence, as anger tainted her thoughts, urging her eyes to open. She winced in her discomfort, the rays of light that caressed her face causing her to squint. She blinked several times before her eyes had adjusted to the new settings, making her uneasy with guilt.  
  
"They were just thoughts," she defended to herself, as she hoisted her body up.  
  
'Damn dirty ones,' a voice countered within her head, making her squirm in remembrance of those very thoughts. Pacifically the dream she should have never had, the very one she would never forget. Frowning at herself, she dismissed the erotic dream as physical attraction. Fatal attraction as she would soon discover.  
  
The door was still being berated by offending fists, but she was reluctant to rise from her bed. With a low growl she pushed the sheets from her overheated body, making her hiss as the cold morning air licked at her exposed flesh. Mumbling a few choice curses she stalked to the door. Once unlocking it with damp fingers, she swung it open. A glower contorted her face, her vibrant blue hair disheveled from her sleep, and an angry flame glittering within her deep azure eyes.  
  
"What in the name of hell do you want," she roared in an unladylike fashion.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
Yamcha was near giddiness as the door was opened. After using an expired credit card, he had finally succeeded in opening the door of Bulma's and his sleeping chambers. Though the feat seemed small, it had proved to be harder than said. With searching eyes, Yamcha peered into the room, the possibility that the intruder was still present keeping him from entering.  
  
"Bulma," he choked out.  
  
Gathering his wits, Yamcha stepped into the room, his eyes darting about the area, searching frantically for her. As he came into view of the bed, a gasp escaped his lips.  
  
She was gone.  
  
Dashing to the bedside, Yamcha cried out in shock, his hands gripping at the mangled sheets in his desperation. Never had he considered the possibility of truly loosing the woman he loved; yet here he was now, a man abandoned within the dark void of depression. His cinnamon brown eyes glazed with unshed tears, as the womanly scent of his wife assaulted his nostrils. A soft whimper escaped his parted lips, the sight of the evident struggle that had taken place making his heart freeze with guilt. Why hadn't he saved her?  
  
A single letter, bound by thick black wax, holding a promise of untold misfortune, lay atop a cream colored pillow. The plush cushion was indented by weight that previously pressured its soft padding, a form he was sure was Bulma's head. With a shaky hand, he reached out to it, the slender digits of his hand gripping it gently, as if it held Bulma's very life within its folds. Upon breaking the seal, the italic words defined the revenge that was sought by his adversary, and put a new meaning to Yamcha's worst fears.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
Bulma's anger immediately deflated as she stared into the emerald green eyes of a young man. She stared at him in shock, her eyes finally taking notice to the unknown surroundings she stood in.  
  
"Where am I," Bulma's voice was soft, her tone a desperate plea to have the man assure that all was as it should be. That she was home, that all was simply a dream.  
  
"English is not one of my strong points, Madame," he responded, a thick accent lacing his young voice.  
  
"Oh," Bulma whispered, her concentration stolen by her rampant thoughts.  
  
Had last night been real? Was the vivid dream a reality that had gone to nightmarish subtleties?  
  
"Very well, would you like brunch," his maturing voice inquired, disrupting Bulma's daze.  
  
"I thought you said you couldn't speak English," Bulma accused.  
  
"I never said anything of the sort," he said, exasperation evident within his tone.  
  
" 'I'm not good with English'," Bulma quoted indignantly, "Those were your very words."  
  
"Yes, and I don't take them back either," he snapped derisively, though his evergreen gems glittered deviously.  
  
"Well, aren't you the charlatan," Bulma huffed scornfully.  
  
"I spoke the truth," he assured, a haughty smirk curving his fine lips, "I don't understand English all to well," he reiterated with a sneer. "Do you comprehend now?"  
  
"All to well," Bulma growled, the bright flush of her face furthering supporting her words.  
  
"Finally," the young man taunted, his dark emerald eyes rolling mockingly.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What," he questioned suspiciously.  
  
"Yes, as in, I would like brunch," Bulma returned mockingly, mirroring the condescending smirk.  
  
"Very well," the young man chuckled, amused by her witty attitude. "But might I acquire your name," he requested in the low timber of his maturing voice, the taunting smirk replaced by a charming smile.  
  
"Bond," Bulma said with a flattering smile, "James Bond."  
  
She could be tolerant of his flirtations, but only for the benefit of befriending someone in this strange place. He was most likely fifteen, Bulma figured, though his deep voice was aged far beyond his years. His face was finely carved, holding an angular sharpness, with smooth refinement; a young, handsome quality. His hair was jet-black, slicked back into sharp spikes, peculiarly resembling a hairstyle she had seen before.  
  
"You enjoy spy movies?"  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"So, now you wish to be mysterious," he inquired loftily.  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"When will I receive a full answer?"  
  
"As soon as you tell me where I am," Bulma countered, a low warning in her tone.  
  
"You, Madame," he drawled, "are within the Palace di Sogni Tessuti."  
  
From the provocative way he gazed at her, Bulma knew whatever he had said was suggestive one way or another.  
  
"Oh, and who, dare I ask, owns this 'Palace'," Bulma inquired skeptically.  
  
"Why, the Viscount, of course," he informed, a taunting smirk gracing his lips.  
  
"Naturally," Bulma sighed, "Well, then lead me to the Viscount."  
  
By the gods, she had been worried for a moment. She was satisfied that this was Yamcha's doings, that he was the aforementioned Viscount... more importantly that reality and fantasy were still separated. Just how she preferred it.  
  
"You mustn't," he declared.  
  
"I didn't intend it as a request," Bulma clarified haughtily.  
  
"As I am not obligated to concede to your demands, I refuse," he countered, eyebrows peaking challengingly, "You needn't act so discourteous."  
  
"How quaint," Bulma puffed, abruptly slamming the door in his face, leaving the man in absolute shock.  
  
"That was uncalled for," his voice floated through the door.  
  
"In your opinion, perhaps, but where I come from, it was completely suited to your behavior."  
  
"Where do you come from?"  
  
"Well that all depends on where I am now, asshole," Bulma rebuked, refusing to open the door once more.  
  
"You may call me Damien," his voice corrected, annoyance tickling his words.  
  
"I prefer asshole, if you don't mind," Bulma persisted stubbornly.  
  
"Well, for my benefit, you can refer to me as Damien," he insisted, "Ouji, if you must, but 'asshole' simply won't do."  
  
The door swung open suddenly, revealing Bulma with an expression of surprise. Her sapphire eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion, curiously eyeing him. He didn't look too much like Vegeta, or least she tried to convince herself otherwise...  
  
"You're related to him," Bulma's inquiry was skeptical, and Damien was not foolish enough not to notice.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"You know very well who I speak of," Bulma huffed.  
  
"Perhaps," Damien offered, "but you'll have to be specific."  
  
"Vegeta," Bulma hissed grudgingly.  
  
"Yes, we are of relations."  
  
"Where's Yamcha," Bulma asked urgently, suddenly very hesitant to her current situation.  
  
"Who," he inquired innocently, pausing insolently, "Ah, yes. Yamcha. Yamcha- Juan? Is that it?"  
  
"Yes," she mumbled in agreement.  
  
"Juan, how original," Damien said with tinted ridicule, letting his words come out in a rough bark of humorless laughter. "Like Don Juan, I suppose."  
  
"Just Juan," she countered tartly.  
  
"He never was much of an intellectual," he muttered beneath his breath, a snide sneer tugging at his lips.  
  
"My husband isn't dense, if that is what you are implying," Bulma defended passionately.  
  
"I didn't imply anything," Damien informed haughtily, "I said it straight out."  
  
"It isn't my predicament that you are a ill-mannered cur, but, I assure you, that if you don't present me to my husband in the next five minutes, I'll make it my problem."  
  
"And you would handle my problem personally, I presume?"  
  
"Yes," she agreed threateningly, although she had no intention of it. She simply had to figure a way out of whatever mess she was in.  
  
"Tempting," he said wickedly, " 'Tis a pity I haven't the time," before promptly retreating back into the hall and walking away without another word.  
  
"Damn Ouji's," Bulma growled, as she took off in the opposite direction, traveling down the hall to the left.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
~I suppose at the moment you believe yourself a ruined man? Have you already fallen; failed? Despite my opinion, there is chance you'll persevere. Hence, why you find yourself reading this note at the moment. As a being of the work force, you pride yourself on your status, am I right?  
  
As of now, you are left with only that, the pride I've always doubted you for. If you fail to comprehend my words, you might do yourself justice and check your accounts. But, you always can check the job listings...  
  
As a man, you find comfort within usual surroundings; find sanctuary and peace within common grounds, yes?  
  
As of now, all possessions you found comforting are lost to the black market. Care to try and win them back? Perhaps the experience will benefit you, for being disemboweled by your own kind would be interesting, would it not? Of course, there is always possibility you'll obtain vital bearings within reality...  
  
You should be seeing a trend by now. No matter what misfortunes befall you, there is always chance; the simple odds that you may survive. In favor of my cause, that simply isn't satisfactory, and so I'm left with little choice, except to overturn everything you've ever counted on, everything that's stable in your life and claim it as my own. Despite what you may believe, everything you deemed strong, everything you could hold onto when you struggle, will be lost.  
  
I promise you won't survive.  
  
As a being of life, your greatest fear is to be alone, to be lost within a bleak void that my doings will surely condemn you to. Death is an easy escape, just as enduring physical pain won't suffice, but do you think you can handle your mental barriers to be broken, shattered into useless, obsolete tatters of shredded hope?  
  
As of now, you're precious wife is alive, and safe from untimely demise, but find no relief in this, for I'm far from finished with the wench. You see, dear cousin, I've found vengeance to be dull, a bore. I thought a challenge would be in order, do you agree?  
  
She will be jaded-- tainted by my touch alone. I will take from you her love, her passion, and her lust. She shall no longer love you.  
  
And do not doubt this, you made that mistake years past, for she shall forsake her vows to you, and you will find yourself alone...  
  
The vendetta was born in Italy, and there it shall die. My vendetta was forged in blood, and so shall it end.  
  
Though I would enjoy obliging your fears, I have a corruption to attend to, and so I must bid you farewell.~  
  
,.o,.o,.o,.o,.o,.o  
  
No matter how many times Yamcha read over the words that promised his downfall would his fears quail. He should know that Bulma would never forsake his love, or her binding vows- right? That was precisely what he feared most, for Vegeta was no amateur in the arts of seduction. Knowledge of such was when his hatred for his cousin first began. No matter whom Yamcha had become smitten over in his younger years, Vegeta had always won them over, simply to leave them stranded with mere hopes and dreams to claim the man as their own. He was no fool, he knew there was chance Bulma would fall prey to Vegeta's charms, no matter if they were simply a facade to ensnare her attentions.  
  
Anger coursing through his veins, Yamcha began preparing for his grand entrance. He would return to his home country, he would endanger himself to save her. To save their love. Gathering different necessities he began packing them in a large brown suitcase. A dark scowl contorted his face as he drew in a sharp breath.  
  
He never had foreseen returning to Italy. 


	6. Chapter Six

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
Bulma continued down the hall of the unknown, each elaborate decoration surrounding her serving little comfort. Honestly, she was still in doubt that this was even reality. Who would really believe waking up in a palace more than a dream? Apparently, not Bulma, as she ambled past the beautiful paintings that gracefully were hung about the large walls, not bothering to take any inspection. The crystalline tiles beneath her bare feet were cold to the touch, allowing her to ease past their smooth surfaces like cool ice. Placing a weary hand on her forehead in agitation, Bulma was shocked to find herself- wet? Even her silken blue strands were damp from an element unknown. Worry started to seep into her mind, but she gripped her composure like a lifeline. She wouldn't show her fear.  
  
Guilt immediately began to overwhelm her. If she had in fact not been dreaming the night before then, simply enough, she had betrayed her vows. Perhaps thoughts held more importance than she previously had thought. An ache conquered her body, as well as her heart, as she continued to pass through the hall.  
  
Upon hearing a familiar voice, one she instantly recognized as Vegeta's, she dashed through the hall, in hopes of reaching him. After turning a sharp corner, she found herself in on a long expanse of a balcony that stretched into a descending flight of stairs, along with a duplicate of the stairs on the opposite end, meeting into a mid-section of velvet carpet, then to proceed into more stairs that led to what appeared to be the entrance of the 'palace'. Several paces away from her, standing within the mid-section where the stair cases met, was Vegeta, his broad back turned to her, obviously unaware of her presence, as he was conversing with Damien, the boy she had met moments before. Taking advantage of surprise, Bulma descended, tapping her feet lightly as she made her way down the seemingly endless steps.  
  
"Awfully conceited, though," Damien's voice floated to Bulma as she neared.  
  
"Yes, terribly so," Vegeta agreed.  
  
Bulma had to restrain from snorting at the remark in indignation, but she slinked down the steps inconspicuously, trying to avoid being seen.  
  
"But, I can't say she doesn't have reason for such an attitude," Damien rejoined thoughtfully.  
  
"Humph," Vegeta responded with a shrug of his shoulders, though Bulma couldn't see the devilish smirk curving his burgundy lips, or the light flare within his ebony depths.  
  
"Mr. Ouji," Bulma greeted gruffly as she came to stand directly behind him.  
  
Damien's immediate reaction was to gawk at her silently, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her within nightwear, and not foolish enough to remind her of the fact. He hadn't thought she would leave her room- like that!  
  
"Bulma, I hadn't expected for you to grace me with your presence," Vegeta said fluidly, the sensual set of his lips beguiling, "Most certainly not in your present attire," he said, letting his eyes rove over her, making her squirm beneath his brazen stare.  
  
Bewildered by his insinuation that she wasn't dressed properly, Bulma glanced down at herself, only to discover that she was wearing an ivory white gown, the thin silk pressed against her body from the remaining dampness that had taken affect at a time unknown. A scarlet blush colored her face, making her refuse to meet his gaze.  
  
'Dear God,' Bulma thought in horror, 'What in the name of hell happened last night?'  
  
Recalling several occurrences within her 'thought to be' dream, Bulma was completely mortified. Yet, here she was, facing the one other accomplice to her illicit actions.  
  
"Take me to my husband," Bulma ground out in fury to his amusement of the precarious situation he placed her in.  
  
"You seemed content without his presence last twilight," Vegeta reminded, feigning innocence, "Besides the fun's only begun,"  
  
"Don't play games with me, Mr. Ouji," Bulma warned, her breath hitching, her gaze suddenly demure and a full blush staining her cheeks crimson.  
  
"Who's to say anything's a game?" He said while taking an advancing step towards her. "Do you doubt reality, or is this reality," Vegeta ventured, grating her nerves into a tangled jumble.  
  
"Wha- what do you mean," Bulma stammered, the heat emitted from the closeness of his body caressing her flesh like a hungry flame.  
  
"Are you so sure," he whispered, his breath tickling her cheek as he came to stand centimeters from her, his eyes searching her pensively, "that everything isn't a dream?"  
  
Bulma was slowly loosing any logical thought as he neared her, making her breath catch within her throat. With only the will that urged her to remain strong did she find the ability to vocalize the blatant lie,  
  
"You, Mr. Ouji, do not fall under anything remotely related to a dream," she spat.  
  
"We're back to formality," he questioned amused, completely dismissing her prior words.  
  
"Why, does it bother you?"  
  
"Possibly."  
  
"Then I'll continue to do so," she snapped peevishly.  
  
"But then- possibly, it only succeeds in arousing me," he suggested provocatively.  
  
"Stop Vegeta," Bulma ordered, pushing at his chest with her hands, futilely trying to push him away from her.  
  
Under her distressed state, she didn't even notice how he had manipulated her to his will. For she was now calling him by his name, which, consequently, was exactly what he had wanted. Her touching him, regardless of her intent, was only an additional benefit.  
  
"Don't stop," he commanded, his eyes flickering to her hands placed on his muscled chest. In spite of the white lawn shirt that prevented her delicate hands to feel his flesh, her touch burned him like embers of the blazing fire he was sure she possessed.  
  
Realizing that Vegeta only took pleasure at her efforts to put a distance between them, she instantly removed her hands. Looking at him disapprovingly, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her treacherous body's reaction to his presence, but to no avail.  
  
"I guess I'll go fetch brunch," Damien offered from behind them, the very first time Bulma had ever heard shyness enter the young man's voice.  
  
"No need," Vegeta dismissed, turning around to face him, "we can go to the parlor, as a buffet should already be set."  
  
"Very well," Damien agreed, a grin sweeping his face.  
  
"No," Bulma refused, crossing her arms over her chest, "Take me home."  
  
"Dear Angel, I'm afraid I can't," Vegeta informed, a dark gleam in his eyes.  
  
"But you can," Bulma pleaded, fear slowly gripping her, as understanding to his words took hold of her.  
  
"Do not fear, my Angel," Vegeta consoled, "You shall be taken care of."  
  
She didn't trust him.  
  
The innuendo he had just laid before her was of peril meaning. Two very real interpretations could result of such a promise, and they contradicted each other to the very last word. Either, her needs would be met accordingly, or something unpleasant was nearing. The dreadful notion that he was capable of such, and that Damien made no objections, made her stomach churn in the morbid reality her being had just been introduced to.  
  
All because of him.  
  
Bulma sent a hopeful glance to Damien, trying to believe that he would rescue her from harm. But all she found within his deep set of emerald pools was unbridled pride, a fondness far greater than what she would have expected. He looked up to Vegeta.  
  
'That's disgusting,' Bulma thought spitefully. How anyone could find a role model within Vegeta was beyond her.  
  
"Very well," Bulma mocked, taking lead, as she started to descend the remaining stairs, leaving two bewildered men to watch her in fascination.  
  
"I wouldn't venture far," Vegeta taunted, "you haven't a clue as to where you're going."  
  
"Just because you've caged me, Vegeta, doesn't mean to say I'll depend upon you," she growled over her shoulder, not ceasing her steps.  
  
Regardless of his own troubles to come, Vegeta couldn't help but admire the woman he had so baldly abducted. In truth, he hadn't even intended to do so. His former purpose was to condemn the vixen into the deceased, but upon confronting the willful woman, he found himself at a loss. For her wit alone, and the passion he had secretly felt, he had spared her. Hence, the position he now found himself in, solely to take from her more than he had ever desired. He was to obtain her heart, to steal the love she felt for Yamcha and bestow it upon himself. Such an act could be considered disgraceful and selfish, yet he would endure the many obstacles to come. In the end, she would be left with a broken heart and he with a fulfilled vendetta. He would be the sole culprit of the pain she would feel in result to his cruel games, and yet he would have no qualms in abandoning her. Such was who he was. She couldn't change that.  
  
Or so he thought...  
  
"You coming," Damien's voice broke his concentration.  
  
"You didn't think I'd miss out on seeing where the vixen's headed," Vegeta assured as he too descended the stairs, Damien in tow.  
  
As Vegeta came to the last step, he bemusedly searched for Bulma. Finding her nowhere in sight, he scowled, immediately beginning to scout the nearby rooms for the missing hostage. Damien, sensing Vegeta's agitation, wisely decided to search in the opposite direction.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
Bulma had to stifle a laugh as the two men went stalking off in search of her. She had been crouched into the small space at the side of the ending stairway, skillfully maneuvering her body to remain unseen. So, they thought they could find humor in her actions? Well, the joke was on them. Hoisting herself to her feet, Bulma began to go off in search of another occupant of the palace. Surely, with the grand size of the structure and all, there would be a butler of some sort. Staying in the shadows for the most of the part, Bulma stealthily made her way about the palace.  
  
Her cunning paid off, as a stout man came into view. Straightening her posture, she approached him, dazedly smiling to better her chances of getting an answer from the man.  
  
"Excuse me," Bulma said, feigning complete innocence, "Can you direct me to the parlor?"  
  
"Ye-" the man began in a rather high, obnoxious voice before oddly ceasing his words.  
  
His eyes seemed to focus on something behind him, but Bulma didn't move, in fear that Vegeta or Damien had found her. Several tense moments passed before he finally spoke again, eyes returning to her again.  
  
"Well, yes, of course, Madame," the man reassured. "Take to the west-wing, you'll come to an intersection of two halls. Take the one to your left. After several paces, you'll come to two ornate doors. Enter the one to your right," he instructed smoothly.  
  
Bulma nodded her head in thanks, turning around to retrace her steps back to the staircases. Pondering over the odd actions the man made, Bulma nervously tried to justify them. Was he lying? There really was no reason to, and she had no reason to doubt him. But then why did she have this queer feeling that something was amiss. Shaking her head to dismiss the thoughts, she began to ascend the steps once more, growling at her luck. If knowledge served her right, parlors were commonly placed on the bottom floor.  
  
"Damn Ouji's," she murmured, as she came to the very intersection the man had described.  
  
Taking the left as he had instructed, Bulma reveled in the plush velvet rug that covered the hall she now walked in. Sweet intoxications filled the air, making her sigh in the light mist that assaulted her senses. Deliberately taking deep breaths, she let herself delve deeper into the scents that permeated the air. Intricate designs began to unravel along the walls, the scarlet red traces bathed in the golden hues that placated the sophisticated blueprint of entwining vines, inspiring outlines of creatures of myth. It was beautiful, a breath taking sight. One that only an artist could truly appreciate, and considering herself a moderate example, Bulma did.  
  
So consumed by the spectacle her surroundings offered, Bulma failed to notice the large ornate doors in front of her, until she was mere inches from hitting one of them. Giggling nervously in her humiliation at the notion that she would have crashed into the large oak door, Bulma sighed thankfully. Once affirming within her mind which door she was to open, Bulma promptly opened the door to her right, entering cautiously.  
  
"Hello," she breathed apprehensively, stepping further into the room.  
  
Across the room French doors remained agape, the claret drapes cast aside, revealing the lush evergreens of the hills in the distance. Light seeped in through the mouth of the doors, casting dimensional shadows upon the room. A light breeze rushing in from the nearby cost gave an ethereal essence to the room, traces of the salty ocean water floating into the room's ambiance. A short hall led to a large chamber, a bed embroidered with satin linen was centered in the room, the dark oak poles spiraling to the ceiling above. A light lace draped down from the four corners, the transparent lace tapering over the king sized bed, meeting the lush ivory rug that lay across the room. Intricate tiles of chocolate oak expanded where the rug could not reach, the smooth flooring glimmering in the morning's light. A river-stone fireplace decorated the wall to her left, directly in front of the canopy bed, though several paces spread.  
  
Somehow, Bulma didn't believe this to be a parlor.  
  
Numerous furniture pieces of the same chocolate oak were placed about the room, including a large dresser, a narrow coffee table, and an extremely large oval mirror, oddly placed at the side of the bed, and facing it. Whoever had arranged the room was not in their right mind. Rolling her eyes, Bulma figured it was a man's work.  
  
What else could be so dimwitted?  
  
"Do you like it, Angel," a timber voice inquired in a soft whisper.  
  
Immediately turning to face the intruder, Bulma was once again captured by the ebony orbs that gazed at her, penetrating her defenses with a swift glance, eternally beguiling her to respond to them like a moth to a flame. She was a fire of passion, and he the internal heat to ignite her. Words appeared so irrelevant within his gaze; only actions could set free the raging emotions he inspired.  
  
"It's beautiful," she agreed, unable to assuage the spell he had cast upon her, unwilling to remove her eyes from his.  
  
The room she now stood in was beautiful, but never had it been more appealing than at that moment, as he stood within it, legs akimbo, arms crossed upon his toned chest, and a knowing smirk curving his irresistible lips. He was the epitome of an evil man; came to her wedding without invitation, humiliated her at first sight, displayed treacherous intimacy to her, deviously threatened her husband, and finally kidnapped her on her wedding night!  
  
Yet, the sight of him, the warmth his body emitted, and the unexplainable intensity that flared within his eyes- made him one of the most mysterious and attractive being's alive. He was handsome beyond compare, perhaps the most striking man she had ever met. And she had no doubt that he truly was the most gorgeous being she'd ever meet.  
  
For, honestly, it wasn't everyday Bulma met a man who's finesse rivaled her own.  
  
"What do you want from me," Bulma sighed, bewilderment lacing her voice.  
  
Why did he evoke such odd emotions from her? Why was the inferno of passion directed to her, and her alone? Why her?  
  
A long silence ensued, causing a shiver to stroke her spine as he stared at her, his sensual eyes glimmering with their shadowed essence, drawing light into their predatory stare to drown within their eternal depths, just as they did the same to her. But she wouldn't yield, didn't dare attempt to discover just what kind of passion lay past forbidden barriers.  
  
In her dream she had, but that was just it. Within the realm of fantasies, consequences were non-existent, very much opposite from reality. But in her dream she had relented to his touch, savored, and returned it...though that dream had turned out to be reality. Could such be held against her? If only she had known, she never would have done what she had...  
  
The tender caress of his hand ended her thoughts, her azure eyes darting to look into his onyx orbs bemusedly. His eyes were slightly hooded, as if in bliss at the mere feel of her ivory flesh beneath his skilled fingertips. A light sigh escaped his lips as his thumb stroked her bottom lip, sending sensations to spiral through her body. Her lip began to tremble on its own accord, the soft flesh yearning to feel his lips, to taste him...to accept him. Bulma had to restrain a low moan that began to flutter within her throat.  
  
"Your heart," he whispered, his lips finding her own.  
  
Unlike the other times he had kissed her, there was a tender intimacy that sent her heart lurching with unknown feelings. The way he manipulated his lips to conform to her own, granting her to taste of his passion, to offer the essence that enflamed his being, left her desiring more.  
  
Simply enough, it was a gift of sincerity to his words. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
Vegeta smirked as the woman within his arms began to surrender her body to his touch. Things were going well, pleasantly well. Already he was luring her to him, making her desire more than she could ever possess. Yes, she would love him by the end of the month. Hell, why not this week? He was confident that his vendetta would be fulfilled.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
Bulma could feel the smirk curving his lips, as they were still molded to her own. So, he thought he could toy with her? Bait her into his bed with sweet promises? Her mind growled inwardly at his audacity.  
  
Did he not remember it was he who destroyed her life? Stole her from her beloved?  
  
In attempt to amend her previous bewilderment, Bulma pushed him away from her. Luckily, the act caught him off guard, giving her the advantage to the peculiar situation. No one had ever rejected him, this evident within the dumfounded expression contorting his face, though he was quick to mask it under indifference. Bulma scoffed, he was offended, and she was happy to be the first to do so.  
  
"Don't assume to touch me," she gritted out, barley containing the rage welling within the depths of her being. Oddly enough it wasn't all directed to him, for self-loathing was present, especially the traitorous body that still wished to reach out to him.  
  
"You seemed willing enough," Vegeta rebuked without thinking.  
  
By the malicious glint that entered her azure depths, he could only guess his choice of words were- misplaced? Dear God, the woman looked like she was going to tear him apart. Furrowing his brows in concentration, he tried to recover from his previous fault.  
  
"If. You. Ever. Touch me. Again," Bulma ground out, "So help me, I'll castrate you- you fiend."  
  
"I hardly see that necessary," Vegeta sneered vehemently.  
  
"We obviously have different perspectives, then," Bulma stated condescendingly.  
  
"Obviously," he snorted, walking past her with regal posture, taking a seat on the bed behind her, the soft satin linen giving a sensual glow to his being with its red-wine coloring. When she didn't make any move to leave, Vegeta dutifully pointed out, "The door is in the same place."  
  
Bulma promptly exited, her hips swaying tauntingly away from him. Damned woman, did she know how she affected men?  
  
"Oh- and Mr. Ouji," Bulma's voice called once outside of his room.  
  
"Yes," he broached haughtily.  
  
"You can't have it."  
  
"Pray, what are you speaking of," Vegeta questioned blandly, interest within her statements vanished.  
  
"My heart," she stated stoically, "You cannot have it," Bulma said blatantly, contempt lacing her feminine voice.  
  
------------------------------------  
  
"You knew about this," a feminine voice screeched in frustration.  
  
"Well- yes," another occupant of the room admitted sheepishly, scratching the back f his head in confusion to his wife's anger.  
  
"Goku!"  
  
"I didn't see any harm to it," Goku explained, his eyebrows knitting together.  
  
"Oh, right of course," Chi Chi agreed in a placating tone, "I suppose Bulma's in no danger. I mean, what was I thinking?"  
  
"I- don't know," Goku offered shyly.  
  
"Why, Vegeta has always been a stand up guy," Chi Chi spoke, her voice gradually becoming cynical sarcasm, "After all, Bulma being kidnapped by Vegeta on her wedding night wouldn't be devastating to her. Waking up in a strange place, inhabited by her abductors, of which are ALL womanizers, would be quite comforting, right?"  
  
"I- suppose," Goku chuckled nervously.  
  
Chi Chi made it evident that she didn't agree with the hard smack she bestowed upon her husband with the- cooking skillet? She winced at the dull thud the collision constructed, the hollow vibration sounding throughout the room. Was her husband brain dead? Too late to pity loosing logical conversations with a man, but she loved him for what he was. And what he wasn't, including the genius she constantly wished for while growing up.  
  
"We have to go save her," Chi Chi informed willfully, "We have to talk some sense into Vegeta."  
  
"I don't believe he would appreciate you suggesting he doesn't have sense to begin with," a new voice spoke arrogantly.  
  
"Hello, Vegeta," Chi Chi growled, turning around to face him, a scowl placed firmly on her lips, just as he wore the same, "Sometimes I question your sense, whether or not you started with any is not a discussion I would like to participate in. Though since you're here, do you mind telling me what the hell you were thinking while kidnapping Bulma?"  
  
"Don't break out in a fit, harpy," Vegeta scorned bitterly, "I've had quite enough of women for the day."  
  
"So, you met Bulma's temper," Chi Chi chuckled, thoroughly amused with the anger that flashed within his eyes at the mere mention of her long-time friend.  
  
"If you can call that a temper," he snarled. "I kiss her and she blows into a fit," Vegeta huffed indignantly, "it isn't as if I'm inexperienced. Damn woman," he cursed.  
  
"No," she agreed blandly, scorn lacing her tone.  
  
Vegeta was far from what one would consider 'inexperienced'. In fact, he was beyond what could be described as 'experienced'. The damn man had courted so many desirable women that counting would be irrelevant. But courtships with Vegeta Ouji were within the bedroom only, nothing past the boundaries of mistresses did he wander, for love had never acquainted itself with the man, always left as an outcast to his numerous seductions of women.  
  
Eternally a being of forbidden pleasures, one never bound to the fabled love of man and woman that had captivated so many, and never was it sought out by his dark heart. He would not surrender the ice fortresses of hate that encased his mysterious heart, nor would he allow another to enter. A life without love, was a life of peace for his tainted soul. The malicious hate that had been introduced to him so many years past was the soul element that comforted his bitter essence, the only emotion that allowed his deceitful barriers to exist.  
  
Vegeta was aware that the woman that now inhabited his palace, the very tavern of his illicit binding, threatened his existence. The existence that had sustained his betrayed life- the same deceit that encased his heart, veiling him from the emotions she so passionately held. Yet, despite the fire within her that threatened to melt his barriers one by one, he could not resist the desire to tempt its flames upon him.  
  
Never would he know that the fire that so sumptuously drew him to her, was a fire that only existed when he was near. He ignited her with a heat he knew not subsisted, a heat that still yearned for the love forbade by his every strip of conscious thought. She was a constant reminder of what he could never obtain, eternally condemned to reach but never able to firmly grasp the concepts she harbored shamelessly, spoke of with such conviction.  
  
Love...the very idea was obscene!  
  
"Are you listening," an indignant Chi Chi hissed, she simply couldn't believe the man!  
  
"Kakorrot, get your harpy of a wife to shut. the hell. up," Vegeta growled, his obsidian eyes burning with their heated glare at Chi Chi.  
  
"Don't you dare," Chi Chi snapped to her husband before returning her anger to it's soul recipient. Vegeta.  
  
"I don't want to hear it."  
  
"Well you're going to, buster," she screamed, "Despite your obvious belief that you can screw up my friends entire life, I won't stand by and let you. Either, you let her go, right now, or suffer the consequences."  
  
"Which curse shall it be this time, will you damn me to hell or take me with you," Vegeta inquired blandly, clearly uninterested in Chi Chi's views.  
  
"I'm not going to hell," Chi Chi clarified righteously.  
  
"I don't suppose they allow banshees or demons in heaven, so you may as well stop sinning for the sake of convincing me."  
  
"I don't sin," she informed in a huff.  
  
"Last time I checked, lies were sins, so now you've completed your damnation. Tisk, tisk," he chided tauntingly.  
  
Goku only watched the exchange with a frown. Why did those two always have to fight?  
  
"Oh, I damned myself when I married into your family," Chi Chi sighed exasperatedly.  
  
"You hear that, Kakorrot," Vegeta chuckled, "She regrets marrying you!"  
  
At Goku's dejected expression, and Chi Chi's mouth remorseful twitch, Vegeta knew he had successfully removed himself from the limelight. Smirking triumphantly, he turned on his heel, strutting purposefully from the Son house.  
  
"Let me see her," a soft voice beseeched him.  
  
Stopping mid-stride in surprise that Kakorrot's wife could speak in genteel tones, Chi Chi took it as a possible acceptance.  
  
"Let us see Bulma," Goku reestablished.  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because."  
  
"Because?"  
  
"I said so."  
  
"Please."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes," Chi Chi barked firmly.  
  
"Yes," Vegeta conceded falsely, anticipating Kakorrot's opposition.  
  
"No!"  
  
"Fine, have it your way-" Vegeta chuckled, walking briskly out the door with an arrogant smirk curling his irresistible lips.  
  
Even as he revved the engine of his car, the collision of Kakorrot's head and a frying pan rang clear within the usually serene silence.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Bulma watched his facial expression anxiously, desperately hoping that he would see the situation as one should and rescue her. Why, if she were a milkman, she would gladly jump at the chance to be the hero of a lovely damsel!  
  
I guess, he just didn't see it her way.  
  
"I'm sorry, Madame," the elderly man apologized earnestly, "but, I speak little English."  
  
"No, no, you can't leave" Bulma pleaded, "They're holding me captive. Cap- tive."  
  
"No choco-milk."  
  
"No, cap-tive," Bulma attempted once more, "Kidnapped!"  
  
"No choco-milk!"  
  
"I don't want your damn 'choco-milk'," she screeched in fury, "I want you to learn English. Come back and listen to me. Then, save me!"  
  
The un-pleasant milkman simply turned away from her, walking with a crooked step towards his small automobile. Without sparing a back-glance, the man started his age-withered car and made his way out of her sight.  
  
But that didn't mean to say she hadn't seen the quick turn he made to the front of the estate.  
  
With an agitated gasp, Bulma pulled herself back through the window and rushed to greet the old bastard at the front door. Her high heeled shoes proved to be a real nuisance as she tried to make record time down the steps of the staircase, but after tripping several times, they appeared to be a risk to her welfare. So, she sent them on their way in front of her, throwing them down the staircase, where they, in turn, tumbled all the way to the greeting hall. Precisely where she intended to be.  
  
Obviously, she wasn't the only one with that thought in mind. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
"Well out with it," the once English-illiterate milkman requested of Damien.  
  
"Yes, yes," Damien conceded with a cunning grin.  
  
He so loved to play mind games, a hobby acquired by watching his mentor's flawless ways. Why, Vegeta had driven sane people to do the most outrageous tasks if only to suit him! Yes, he was a master of the arts, and Damien couldn't be more proud to call him family. Off handedly he wondered how the 'guest' reacted to the milkman. What desperate measures would have she taken to gain the haggard milkman's attention? He fairly chuckled out loud at the images crossing his mind's eye. The blue haired temptress must have thrown herself out the window, and to think it was all for no good, the milkman purposefully being displayed in front of her- like an escape she never could reach. Why, the old man wasn't even a milkman to begin with, just a poor ol' beggar that was paid to play the part for the day.  
  
This, of course, being another of Vegeta's suggestions to taunt the beauty.  
  
"What was the agreed arrangement," Damien questioned with a yawn, his open wallet displaying numerous bills.  
  
"Uh," the man stuttered stupidly, "a- um, 5k."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Aye," he agreed.  
  
"And American bills, I suppose, as well?"  
  
"Um, aye, that it would."  
  
"I'm a generous guy," Damien broached in a nonchalant voice, pausing to see the man before him nod in approval, "I'm generally easy to get along with?"  
  
"Aye," the man agreed, a bit uncertain of where this was going.  
  
"But, you know what," Damien laughed genially, a lopsided grin adorning his face.  
  
The questioning arch of the man's eyebrows was enough to urge Damien to continue, his grin suddenly turning into a reproachful smirk, eyes narrowing contemptuously, "I never got along with liars."  
  
Before the man could speak in defense, a new voice intruded the conversation, cultured and refined into a soothing murmur, "Touche."  
  
The voice had a deep monotone, the sound a thick vibration like an instrument of illicit temptation, edged with veiled contempt.  
  
"Quite," Damien agreed, watching as Vegeta approached them.  
  
"Don't suppose me a hypocrite, my tongue is hardly pure," Vegeta said evenly, false pleasantness coating his voice, "but I always was skilled with my tongue," he concluded, a wicked smirk curving his mouth.  
  
Though Damien was slightly confused as to the innuendo in Vegeta's words, he didn't question it, only watched as Vegeta glanced near the staircase. Vegeta cloaked his chuckle with a 'humph', as he could hear the 'ear-dropper' stumble at his words. Oh yes, he knew she was there, knew it the moment he walked in, the heavy scent of her labored body all too recognizable.  
  
Soon he would be the one to 'labor' her body instead of her silly attempts at running down his staircase, he with a wicked grin.  
  
Despite his venturing thoughts, he was prone to mock the insolent chit. He rolled his eyes inwardly, I mean, really now, could she be even a little bit more mannered. Listening in on his conversations, could she be more obsessed, he thought with a self-pleasing smile.  
  
"I'm not a liar," the man croaked, placing a mask of sincerity on his face.  
  
"Be careful wh-" Damien growled, though unable to complete the threat, as Vegeta cut him off.  
  
"No, no," Vegeta said with empathy, "You're right, it was unjust of me to accuse you of sinning so bluntly, heaven forbid. What ever would Mama think of me?"  
  
"I forgive you," the man spoke, reassured by Vegeta's words, "It clearly was a mistake."  
  
"I don't make mistakes," Vegeta corrected with a demeaning smirk, "I don't believe in justice," pausing shortly, he let out a cruel chuckle, "And I most certainly don't have a 'Mama'."  
  
There was long pause.  
  
"Those were all lies, another step to my damnation. Look what you made me do?" Vegeta accused, his pitiless obsidian eyes narrowing to slits.  
  
"I- I'm sure you will be forgiven," the man stammered beneath the vicious glare, having a frightening resemblance to charcoal marbles, hardened with hate and glazed with a lust for blood.  
  
"Ah, but that's to say I repent my doings," Vegeta posed, "I would need a conscience for that, wouldn't I? It's a pity I misplaced it."  
  
"Of course, why would the mob regret," the man said shakily, trying to please him anyway he could.  
  
"What did you just say," Vegeta snarled, his eyes ablaze with quiet anger, a silent anger that could burn as threatening as the fires of hell.  
  
Silence reigned supreme.  
  
"What. did. You. Just. say?!"  
  
"T- that you s- shouldn't re- regret," he stumbled over his words, horror encompassing his age-withered eyes.  
  
"Give him the money," Vegeta ordered, turning to Damien with a black scowl etched across his face.  
  
Turning on his heels, Vegeta made a grand exit as he ascended the regal staircase... anticipating the vixen he was sure to stumble upon. Halting suddenly, he cast a side-glance to the man who was eagerly accepting the money offered at the door.  
  
"The family," he spoke in a deathly whisper that floated to the ears all within range, the air tense with his anger.  
  
"W-what?"  
  
"I am, the family," Vegeta pronounced haughtily, his black eyes flashing with pride.  
  
With that, he continued his ascent, like a dark shadow shifting within the veiled fortress that served as his domain.  
  
*************  
  
Was it just her, or did the temperature rise, oh, I don't know, 20 degrees?! Damn that man and his odd affect on her. 'Skilled with his tongue', she snarled inwardly. What a cocky son of a gun! Furthermore, she still had yet to get to the bottom of this fiasco. Surely a genius could solve it, she assured herself. Bulma had concluded that this was all a misunderstanding, or maybe a joke even. Perhaps an involved way to whisk her away to her honeymoon, where Yamcha would gallantly show up and rescue her, just as the knight in her dreams had done so many a times. After all, she had told him of the fantasy on several occasions, had she not? It could be possible?  
  
Yes! That must be it! What a romantic Yamcha was, she thought with a sigh.  
  
...yeah right. Yet, she persisted with her sharp mind that it was so. That this was a scheme to bring her dreams to life. But, then again, why would Yamcha choose 'him' to play the bad guy? Sure, he did fit the dark nemesis sort of thing, possibly too well, but he certainly altered her vision of the 'bad guy'.  
  
He wasn't supposed to be the dark enchanter, tempter of the body and sensuous to the eyes.  
  
Vegeta was the embodiment of her darker fantasies- the ones with the cruel, jaded prince seducing her into his wicked flames. Did she mention that these dreams started only recently? Oh, say, the night she had met him?  
  
"Thinking of me," the deep timbre of his voice sending chills down her spine.  
  
She knew who it was.  
  
"What do you want, Mr. Ouji," Bulma inquired snobbishly, a blush staining her cheeks.  
  
"My ears were ringing," he responded smoothly, crossing his arms as he stood above her, Bulma still being on the floor, hiding behind the large pillar of the stair railing.  
  
"You're going deaf," she bit out, "You look old anyways."  
  
"Don't tell me you haven't heard the old saying," Vegeta continued, acting as if she never spoke, "that if your ears ring, then someone is thinking of you?"  
  
"I can't say I have, nor do I care to pretend that I want to hear it."  
  
"Your cares obviously are forfeit, for now you know," he countered, a blithe smirk molding his sensual mouth.  
  
"No, Vegeta, nothing of me will ever be forfeit to your will," Bulma opposed, her frown swiftly transforming into an challenging grin, as she stood, refusing his offered hand.  
  
"Ah- but you already are, Dearest Angel," Vegeta murmured, his heated breath tickling her senses.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Uhm-mm," he breathed, head tilting to the side, lowering ever so slightly, his face inches from brushing against the skin of her neck.  
  
"Why did you bring me here," Bulma demanded softly, her heart skipping beats.  
  
"That isn't what you were going to ask," he whispered, his soft lips caressing the pulse on her neck, moving softly against the porcelain skin.  
  
"Wh- why do you call me Angel," she gritted, tensing as he pushed his leg between her thighs, his rock hard muscles pressing scandalously against her feminine flesh.  
  
"Because Angels were meant to be floored," Vegeta informed, his voice a deep, masculine vibration, as he flexed his quadriceps, creating more friction, making Bulma's breath hitch.  
  
Those were his departing words.  
  
------------------------  
  
Though through the past several hours Bulma had remained calm, clinging to her composure with dignity, she surely couldn't keep up the farce any longer. Panic overrides many obstacles and barriers, but it had never before conquered Bulma's sense of stability. With no more excuses left, nor novel scenarios of why she had been taken, Bulma was scared. Horrified to be truthful, yet her pride restrained her from admitting it.  
  
She wasn't safe-she was alone.  
  
Being lonely is an unfortunate thing, but to be left stranded with no hope or reason of faith in her survival, Bulma was on the verge of tears. Technically more tears, for as she lay with her head encompassed by several plush, tear stained pillows her heart ached for the soft, tender touch of her lover.  
  
"Oh, Yamcha," Bulma sobbed in anguish, burying her face further into the linens of the Queen sized bed she lay on.  
  
Despite the shed tears that spoke volumes of her inner turmoil, Bulma refused to be defeated by self-pity. Situations in life are never meant to break you, their soul purpose is to make you stronger, and that was exactly what Bulma had in mind. She would overcome the pain, the trepidation, the fear- the temptation.  
  
He wouldn't defeat her.  
  
This was more than a trial of survival, it was a game of wills, and she had no illusions that it wasn't going to be difficult. Vegeta Ouji was a formidable foe, she knew it from the moment she set her eyes on him- and left them there- and within the limited hours she had known him, he had only prove her more than correct. She mustn't underestimate him.  
  
Every definitive quality he possessed epitomized masculinity, the virility of his very presence causing her feminine pores to come alive. She was keen to every movement he made, and that, understandably, frightened her. His strong jaw, always set in a determination she had never encountered before, his obsidian gems smoldering with a passion she could not define, and his sensual lips smirking with a wickedness she was not accustomed to- he was an element of the unknown.  
  
And he was her captor.  
  
God help her, but she wasn't sure which was more dangerous; the gun he carried or the passion he harnessed, the sensuality he exuberated. She could deny it no longer, the man was devilishly tempting, and was more dangerous than words could describe. Though the gun she glimpsed, or rather felt on his waist, threatened her life, the flaming passion he was jeopardized her very soul.  
  
A very feminine soul, indeed.  
  
Unexpectedly she found herself staring into two emerald eyes of cool hauteur. Bulma jumped in surprise, her eyes immediately narrowing at Damien in disapproval. What if she had been undressed?!  
  
For some reason, she thought that was point.  
  
"Don't look so down put," he jested, "Vegeta was unable to retrieve you himself, though he offers his most sincere apologies."  
  
"Leave," Bulma ordered forcefully, hoping feverishly that he wouldn't take account of her swollen eyes.  
  
"Only if you accompany me," Damien said loftily, an impish grin tugging at his lips.  
  
"I most certainly will not!"  
  
"Come now, I'm not so entirely bad, am I chit? He shall be there as well, after all," he cajoled, "I shall return in an hour then," he suggested merrily.  
  
"No," she admonished.  
  
"Ah, but you must meet the family," Damien countered, a lopsided smile conquering his lips at her surprised expression.  
  
'The family,' Bulma thought meekly, eyes widening in apprehension.  
  
"Yes, yes, of course," he responded cordially, as if he heard her thoughts.  
  
The heavenly ones help her, who was 'the family'? 


	9. Chapter Nine

Vendetta of the Heart...  
  
Bulma grated her teeth roughly back and forth, making a point to create as much noise as humanly possible, if only to distract her mind. Her agitation was evident within her quickened pace, the fire that leapt within her cerulean orbs testament to the anger that enflamed her thoughts. She was positively livid! The audacity the man had was atrocious, and most certainly improper. Had he learned no manners? Or simply refused to acknowledge them?  
  
The past three hours of Bulma's life could most assuredly be labeled as some of the worst of her life. The fact that she was only 19 was no mentionable factor, nor that she had lived a relatively comfortable existence. Cursing his name, a name she refused to utter, a thousand times over, she continued her frustrated journey to 'her' room.  
  
"Dearest Angel," the same voice that echoed within her thoughts beckoned, his tone a silky caress.  
  
She dare not stop. There was absolutely no possibility that he wouldn't see past her frayed composure; that he wouldn't notice her frankly obvious disgruntlement, just as there was absolutely no possibility that she would stop to allow him to do so.  
  
Apparently he knew this as well.  
  
"Whatever has you troubled, Angel," he inquired with a sensual air.  
  
She deigned not to answer.  
  
But those words proved haunting...  
  
Flash Back_____________________________________________  
  
She eyed the doorknob with apprehension, searching for any indication that Damien was turning it, attempting to collect her, as she knew he would. Though it was an extremely displeasing thought, she hardly could deny the keen anticipation that entailed the thought of her soon introduction. Perhaps this evening would bring a closing to her supposed abduction? Was Yamcha here?  
  
Her eyes were considerably less red, the shower she had taken the liberty of using acutely soothing to her senses; the warm water a temporary comfort to her ails. The cerulean tresses piled atop her head coordinated into an upheaval held resemblance to a distorted chignon bun, several arrant curls framing her delicate face. Her chin was set in determination, her posture rigid with her defensive state of mind. She had adorned her neck with flaxen rope, the odd accessory once attached to the window curtains of her room, this one of Bulma's ingenious ideas to show the death threat that her captors hung over her head. To pronounce her duress more so, she had attached two links from the shower curtain to her wrists, exemplifying her captive situation. Conclusively, she still wore the nightgown from her abduction, despite the extravagant evening gowns that a servant had presented to her several hours before.  
  
The severity her picture composed was defined by the fierce fire her sapphire orbs wielded. She would cause disturbance, if not uproar, she was sure. Someone was bound to end her mistreatment and rescue her. Bulma, apparently enough, was no longer satisfied with her minds constant reassurances. She knew she was in perilous danger, and now, decidedly, was the time to end the whole farce. Though she highly doubted circumstances were in their worst, her abduction, in all logical reality, was most likely a misunderstanding. But one never could be certain... If this was, on most sordid scenarios, a scheme to attain money, then Bulma was comforted to believe Yamcha would save her. But until then-  
  
She'd create a living hell for Mr. Ouji.  
  
Her previous misgivings of integrity within her 'captor' were vanquished, ruined by her own analyzing and assumptions, she had concluded with only one thought; she had to turn things around. She was presently in a very precarious situation; the unknown always tends to be so, though she was fiercely determined to send Vegeta into the defense. It was a battle of wills, and it was her turn to conquer. She wanted to humiliate Vegeta, to make him tremble with unaffiliated emotion, an emotion that was hopefully embarrassment. She would prevail.  
  
From the sounds of it, his 'family' was of great importance, hence becoming the target of Bulma's rash display. She anticipated the horror stricken expression that would contort his face when he saw her, could almost feel the uncanny glee it would award her. She suddenly had little to no patience, resulting in her self-escorted departure from the room. Assuredly, she would find where they were congregating with little difficulty; she was after all a woman, and one with a great sense of direction, at that.  
  
Bulma walked through the halls with a proud stride, her jaw tightened with dignity, her nose pressed into the air with superiority, and her shoulders squared with rigidity; the later a pitiful attempt to display her immunity to Vegeta's sexual lure. Her adornments were radical, yet despite her own defiance, she still wore makeup. Though sketchy, it was present; the thin tracing of her eyes in midnight blue, eyelids shadowed a hypnotic indigo, eyelashes defined with coal black mascara. Her complexion was softened with a light application of foundation, her cheeks colored by rosy blush- an addition she would discover unnecessary...  
  
Her cheeks would turn scarlet if Vegeta so much as sent her a provocative glance.  
  
Short moments brought her to the staircases, which she stepped down with ease, considering this time she wasn't wearing high-heels. In fact, she wasn't wearing any shoes. Unfortunate enough, Bulma could see no sign of Vegeta, or any one for that fact, but she would not let that hinder her.  
  
Perhaps just a little, for she really had no idea as to where she was going, or where she was, to begin with, as a matter of fact.  
  
"Patience isn't one of your virtues, eh?"  
  
Bulma turned hastily at the sound of Damien's voice.  
  
Present_____________________________________________  
  
"I fear your silence has cut me to the quick," he spoke in a mock sigh, his voice curling about the her senses like sweetened honey, "I'm not immune to temptation, and quite frankly, Angel, when you're angry you look deliciously ravished. I dare say that I'm inclined to maintain the flush in your cheeks by- other means," he finished, pausing shortly as he caressed his lower lip with his heated tongue.  
  
That speech apparently deserved an answer.  
  
Stopping abruptly, Bulma turned to face him, her face colored with passionate anger. Her eyes pierced him with their sharp intent, the desire to hurt him evident within the raging oceans. She clenched her fists repeatedly at her sides, the aching urge to hit him making her tremble. Inevitably, temptation proved too strong, her fisted hand connecting with his aristocratic nose. The deed done, Bulma could only feel elation. Why, she had done women across the globe a phenomenal favor; perhaps now he wouldn't be so irresistible.  
  
When she recovered from her dazed thoughts, Bulma focused her eyes on him, hopeful to find a perfectly imperfect face. Her hope was shattered. He stood there, seemingly completely unaware of the crimson liquid that trickled from his nostrils, his ambiance only glorified by the rugged appearance the shed blood presented; his knowledge of such only more becoming. He wore a casual smirk, the rakish curl to his mouth seductive in its lure.  
  
"You are aware that any common lady would slap me, not punch me in the nose," he informed, eyebrows furrowed slightly with wonderment and amusement.  
  
"Well, Mr. Ouji, I am no common lady," Bulma clarified tartly, her chin lifting defiantly.  
  
"Perhaps not," he offered with wry humor, his tone suggesting reluctance to the acknowledgment, "No, common doesn't fit," he murmured, his head tilting to the side.  
  
Uncharacteristically he seemed uncertain, indecisive in all meanings of the word, his head tilted in bemusement, lips pouted in wonder, and classically devilish eyes cast down in thought. He looked almost vulnerable, though that thought in itself was absurd.  
  
Wasn't it?  
  
Flashback____________________________________________  
  
The crimson droplets accumulated at the bottom of the crystal glass, spiraling inconsistently with the movements of his hand, as he distractedly exposed the liquid to the air, opening the very pores of the wine, letting the taste expand to its fullest. Such were the actions of any true connoisseur. And, by the gods, he was familiar with wine. Whether it be result from his familiarity of its thick, sun-dipped flavor- as well as the consequences in the morning- or from his obvious association with the substance as the owner of many vineyards, had little significance at the moment. He really could think of nothing more besides his expected guest. His most honored invitee.  
  
He had sent Damien to fetch her mere moments ago, the instruction sent with no more than a flick of his wrist accompanied by a bored side-glance. Those moments stretched like hours, extensive moments infiltrated with humidity and a chilling sensation pregnant with apprehension and anticipation. It really made no difference that the room was temperate; Vegeta was still on edge.  
  
The ballroom was decorated grandly, new draperies and linens strewn fashionably about the windowpanes and buffet setting. Many of his associates hovered near the walls, admiring the fine architecture of the dome ceiling, one that was a famed piece of art; the fine, chiseled marble and frozen, white, crystalline mercury a defiance of the known. Whilst his family members ambled merrily about, testing the delicacies his customary banquet offered.  
  
Silence enveloped the room, containing the hitched breath of elite con artists accumulatively within the large palace. It took a lot to catch the people he associated with off guard; he just hadn't anticipated it to be a woman that held that power. Of course, he did it all the time, but that was different. He knew she was an exquisitely beautiful woman, rather painfully aware of that truth, actually, but he had not expected a reaction such as this.  
  
Even the musicians were tentative to perform their arts on their instruments, the musical voices of the violins and pianos seemingly hesitant to rein their beauty supreme within the room. Eyes were focused avidly upon the entrance of the room, waiting with classic animation.  
  
Apparently for his reaction.  
  
Expectant glances were darted to him, but he paid little heed, treating the phenomenon with languid amusement. Indifference maintained within his composure, Vegeta turned with boorish rapidity, though a thoroughly amused smirk playing on the corner of his mouth, his boyish dimple presenting itself, which, sadly enough, was an unusual occasion. His expression was tantalizing to the women, simply a hazard to the men present.  
  
Finally his sensuous, obsidian gaze rested on her, his beautiful captive, the siren that he forced into his life. There she was, simply...By the gods! What the hell was she?! His composure actually faltered at her appearance, however not in his expected reasoning. No, it couldn't be because she was simply so surreally gorgeous. That was simply too much to ask for!  
  
A coughing fit suddenly broke out in the room, many uncomfortable by the waver within his composure. Their fear of him fueled their uncertainty, but their anticipation proved more prominent, the spectator's eyes focused solely on the pair that now glared at each other from across the enormous room, the forces of unleashed obsidian condescension and unrivaled seas of raging sapphire colliding hazardously.  
  
Damien shifted uneasily from where he stood, unfortunate to be standing at Bulma's side, somehow only fueling Vegeta's agitation. After all, the boy could have least warned him! His pride dismissing the thought as soon as it occurred to him, as he could will his way through any given situation, Vegeta pasted on a domineering smirk, his posture challenging as he looked upon her with ill-concealed amusement. Though at first it had been a mask, his impudent display soon turned to reality, a reflection of what he was thinking. It was rather amusing, was it not? Embarrassing her- self in front of the top elite crime industry, and for what? To make a soon to be disregarded statement?  
  
Ha, the little imp.  
  
Befitting to what had just crossed his mind, the impertinent woman raised one slender brow at him, an impish grin twisting lips he once admired. Perfectly curved lips he desired to touch; or, that is, before she had made that hideous little gesture. It took practically all his control not to snarl; she was ruining his fun. Why hadn't she been reduced to meekness; demure smiles and downcast eyes? Better yet-  
  
...why was he angry?  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
She stood proud, shoulders squared in pride, her eyes demeaning as they assessed him languidly. His presence filled the room, reaching to the very corners of its large expanse, intoxicating the very air she breathed, his scent tantalizing her senses. The black tuxedo he wore was divertingly form fitting, but for all she knew it could just be his size of suit could not hide the steel muscles that were sheathed by the velvety skin he sported so well. A tick worked in his jaw, hinting at the raw anger that manifested within the pit of his stomach. She only hoped it would not surface.  
  
Oh, how she wanted to cower. To hide from his dark anger that echoed in his onyx depths, petrifying her with its untamed intensity. She wasn't sure whether or not she truly could mask the fear that enveloped her, not even sure if at that moment everyone knew? A bead of sweat accumulated at her temple, the chilled moisture making her shiver involuntarily. She was so cold.  
  
She was so hot.  
  
How was that even possible? She could swear that the temperature of the room was rising at a rapid rate, making her want to run away from its heated clutches. And yet, she could feel the icy cold chills that ran along her spine, making her breath come out in slow, shallow heaves. This was hell. It just had to be.  
  
And he was its Prince.  
  
The menacing figure began to approach her steadily, a slow stride that offered tempting moments for her to run; to flee the uncertainty that dimmed her thoughts. It was an offer her pride could not accept. With each step conquered she could hear the palpitation of her heart thudding in her ear, even as her body was stilled in an eerie calm. It wasn't until he took those extra steps to be directly in front of her that she began to feel her composure slipping away. Their proximity gave a new meaning of the saying "seeing each other eye to eye". But had they ever said anything about "lip to lip"?  
  
His breath fanned over her cheek, his head lowered so he could look her straight in the eyes, capturing her. Forcing her to surrender to his gaze; or else fight its beseeching insistence only to fail. She stilled her breathing, forcing her intake of breath to be relaxed; as calculated as was his nearness. Her eyes desired to flit away from the heated eyes that searched her; but she couldn't. Wouldn't dare. The risk was too great, the price too dear.  
  
She needed the advantage.  
  
Taking a dainty step closer, she challenged his intimidating presence, forcing herself not to cringe at the heat that accosted her body. The warmth of his body radiated from him, the passionate fire that held a raging inferno within him burning her with its electric heat. To be ice would be fatal, defenseless against the fire that would melt her. No, no ice would not do.  
  
She would just have to be fire.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The daring move caught him off guard, but he had learned long ago not to underestimate your opponent. Nor to overestimate them. She was a woman- his captive- defenseless to his mastery, trapped within his domain. He ruled her. That power elicited unexpected joy, more than he was entitled to, but, then again, the possession of a woman was always tantalizing.  
  
He possessed her.  
  
A self-pleased smirk, wicked and illicit, curved his burgundy lips, moist from the bittersweet wine that still clung to the satiny texture. Her sapphire eyes burned into his memory, the unrelenting gaze looking straight into the very depths of his being. The very core of his soul- a space that was hollow.  
  
"Tell me, Sweeting, wherever did you acquire such a- interesting taste of fashion?" Vegeta spoke with so much sensuality that she could have sworn she had been physically touched.  
  
"Italy."  
  
Curse her, the minx had figured out where she was! Though a rather broad deduction, it was still rather intriguing. She could prove to be more fun than he had first anticipated.  
  
Or more of a problem.  
  
"Bravo," he purred, his hand reaching to caress her cheek approvingly.  
  
"No on-core," she mocked prettily, avoiding his touch swiftly.  
  
"I wouldn't want to encourage naughty behavior," the timber of his voice rumbled, the echo of mirth kissing his tone.  
  
"So it's naughty for a woman to be intelligent," Bulma said in a monotone, "How quaint."  
  
"There really is no need for such- malevolence," he chided tauntingly.  
  
"Too much for you, am I, Vegeta," she inquired loftily, the sound of his name on her lips a sensual caress.  
  
God help him, was she trying to seduce him? The thought sent chills of anticipation down his spine.  
  
"There's only one way to find out," he murmured roughly, undulating his hips softly to emphasize his intention.  
  
He almost laughed when she coughed in surprise, her eyes widening to large blue saucers. She could pretend to be a wanton harlot, but he knew her passion was buried much deeper than that. Of course, treasures far more valuable were always hid with more care. The hunt was always a very pleasurable part of complete surrender. And in this circumstance, he would more than willingly act the part of the pirate.  
  
"I suppose so," she conceded with strained calm, a chilling smile offered too graciously for his comfort.  
  
The minx!  
  
"Well, since it seems greetings are over," Bulma pronounced more loudly than necessary, "I believe you mingling with your guests is in order."  
  
"Mayhap, I enjoy my present company," he asserted smoothly.  
  
"And mayhap, I do not," she contradicted with a coy smile.  
  
"Touché."  
  
Present____________________________  
  
(Scene to be continued...) 


	10. Chapter 10

****For all my wonderful fans that fueled my passion for writing and were there at the start of my career as a writer, I'd like to introduce you to my first novel! You can read more at .com/ Thank you all so much for your support and for giving me the courage to aspire to reach for my dreams*****

The night shadows crept over the horizon like an ebony canvas, sweeping across the lands with its phantom limbs, foreshadowing the tumult that was imminent. The coming day was eclipsed by a dark magic long left sleeping, swallowing the light in its unforgiving possession. Melancholy winds shuffled through the silence of doom, like poison its transparent fingertips meeting flesh for the first time in over a thousand years, reaching to the souls of all that had forgotten; murmuring in their vulnerable ears. The world became desolate and cold, abated by its worst fear… the end of times. It had begun.

It was the end of the light.

The tarnished hearts of the condemned shifted restlessly in their hollow cages, woken by the beckoning of their master's call. Murmurs broke through the shield that had imprisoned him and caressed the ears of all the beings of the world, silken threads of sound that whispered sweet serenity even within the chaos, voices so soft that all strained to hear, endearing them all to the angelic sound, the whimsical vibrations that echoed from a mouth they knew not. Promises- it knew them all, granting priceless gifts to appease all the desires, all the appetites, and all the power.

Truculent oceans quaked from the velvety caress of the voice, leading the untamed waters to crash upon the shoreline, altering the sands until surrendered to its clutches. The farthest reaches of the seas, deep with the crevices of its unfathomable levels, shifted restlessly until lava spewed forth from its opened heart. Blood red magma never hardened from the waters meet, heated by the voice that still echoed throughout the universe. Lightning ripped through the skies, scorching the ground with its angry electricity as thunder echoed its fury and the sirens that were born of the skies wailed. Their tears drenched all the worlds, their cries making millions crumble to their knees and grasp the ears to drown out the horrendous sound.

A cynical grin spliced his lips, curving slowly with the sweet anticipation of revenge. The cornerstone of his power had been revived; he could feel its presence beckoning him, taunting him with how close it was to his grasp. He listened to the thoughts of the underlings that now wandered these worlds, their vain attempts to soothe their woes. The echoes of his titles made him laugh mirthlessly; the King of the Forsaken, Soulless Shadow, Soul-eater, and so many more just to avoid calling him by his rightful name. Too long he must have slept, for they dishonored him with their meager attempts to declare his personage. He had vanished into mere tales of horror and myth, thousands of years leaving only fools to replace the once wise men that feared his name. Soulless he very well may be, but he was by right and by blood, Tal' Kenai, god of the suns.

It was a name the world would never again forget.

"Brahk ti' marra," he hummed to himself, stretching out his claws rigidly as he sensed the presence of those he hated most.

The gates of Xil'vallore remained closed, the home of the gods and the almighty Fate-Weavers, whose hands cradled and destroyed every life in existence. Impenetrable they declared their walls, hosted with magic deeply rooted past the age of creation to ward off all that dare venture near, but what of one born within their sacred walls? Their arrogance would be their downfall, but he could smell their fear, the way it wreaked like rancid blood. It was intoxicatingly sweet to his nostrils, the unease of his enemies and the demise they had yet to comprehend.

A chortle of laughter echoed through the empty chamber; the once grand throne room he ruled his subjects within, passing edicts and controlling his empire; reduced to the catacombs of a grave. Burgundy curtains haggardly draped the windows that bore no light, for his world had been cast into darkness long ago. Dust lay thickly on the marble floors and the creak of servants no longer haunted the halls, nothing left but his hatred and the empty chest that once bore a heart. Blood dutifully flowed through his veins, prolonging his cursed existence for the eternity they condemned him to live.

Heaving his body forward with a deft lunge, he stretched the coiled muscles of his hind legs. Talons, six from each foot, unfurled effortlessly and dug deep ravines into the marble beneath him. Their blood would soon drain eagerly like an overfilled basin and drip from his hungry mouth, tainting the earth with their treachery.

Even the night shadows could not mask his massive form, the unruly mane that crowned his head, silver like the metallic rivers of Sanore, contrasting to the obsidian eyes that possessed nothing put malice. His snout was long, two great fangs breaching his lips and stretching ominously like razors that gleamed in the hollow light of the moon, eager to pierce flesh and bone.

"Sire," a cloaked man bowed in the entrance, proceeding only at the nod of the mighty head, the two dark eyes observing him distantly.

The lion that's breadth nearly dwarfed the room, whose silver mane and dark brown fur thickly covered his elongated back and tree trunk like legs, quirked his head to the side in cynical amusement. How they let escape the key to his power was more than foolish, for within their haughty ignorance so had they sealed their fates and that of all the worlds.


End file.
